Aspirations
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: A driver's girlfriend wants to see him win a major race; and a journalist hopes to publish a book that will have a significant impact on current events.  Follows 'Julie's Misadventures'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Happy Halloween! As I begin posting this story, it's close to reaching its conclusion; but I have more than enough material ready to put up a fair portion of this story, so enjoy. One of the ideas herein has its origins as far back as before the dates this story takes place; the racetrack featured in the story is intended to be the one from season 1's "Lady of the Evening / The Racer" which first aired February 25, 1978.

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§ § § - October 3, 2006

"So how long are they staying again?" Leslie asked, waiting at the plane dock with Christian on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. Several members of her husband's family were due to arrive on the next charter, for an extended vacation away from Lilla Jordsö's rapidly chilling fall weather.

"They're planning on a month," Christian said, cursorily checking his Rolex, as he'd done several times in the last five minutes. "I suppose after all the weddings and such, they want to have some…I think you call it 'down time'." He squinted impatiently into the sky and shook his dark head. "Is the charter late?"

"You seem anxious," Leslie said, "and no, the charter's right on schedule, according to Father. Are you worried about something, my love?"

He blinked at her a couple of times, then laughed. "I suppose I am a little anxious at that. They're bringing Kristina, and it's her first trip out of the country since Arnulf died. Between her and the baby, it's going to be quite an undertaking." Carl Johan and Amalia were coming, along with Anna-Laura and Esbjörn—for his first trip beyond Scandinavia in untold years—and Rudolf and Louisa with their infant daughter. Roald had wanted to bring Adriana, but by now her pregnancy was too advanced for her to travel so far; the castle doctor had restricted her to trips within Europe only.

"Yeah, I can see what you mean. It's been an eventful year at that," Leslie agreed, thinking back over all the things the royal family had experienced in the last ten months or so. Rudolf and Louisa had been married in the first few minutes of New Year's Day; both Louisa and Adriana had fallen pregnant; Esbjörn had finally escaped from a very long captivity at the hands of a would-be oil heiress who was now in prison; Margareta had come out of the closet and recently wed her girlfriend, Gudrun Johannesson; and Anna-Kristina had just married her second husband, architect Kai Oskarsson, and become stepmother to his two daughters, who loved having three-year-old Natalia as a stepsister. She and Natalia had moved to Kai's suburban-Sundborg home and seemed quite happy there. And of course, there'd been the flurry of scandal about the royal family after the revelation of the plot that had resulted in Esbjörn's supposed assassination and actual kidnapping. Quite a few people had been caught in the fallout, although by now most of the principal players were dead. The only survivors were Esbjörn and the oil heiress, Ingela Vikslund, who had once dated Christian many years before and tried to pinpoint him as the father of her son Kurt.

"Yes," Christian murmured, still peering into the sky. "It was definitely time for some peace and quiet. Damn it, I'm telling you, that charter's late."

Leslie grinned and let him believe it, taking in the soft tropical morning. It was going to be a very interesting vacation, she suspected. She would still be working weekends with Roarke, as usual, but for a while their home life would be disrupted somewhat. After some semi-heated argument among assorted family members, it had finally been decided that Anna-Laura and Esbjörn would stay at Christian and Leslie's house, in the downstairs suite that was part of the addition they had built during Leslie's pregnancy with the triplets; and Kristina, Carl Johan and Amalia would all share a bungalow that had been modified to accommodate people using wheelchairs. Rudolf and Louisa and their baby would be staying at Julie's B&B.

Just as Leslie was checking her own watch, apparently infected by Christian's impatience, they both detected the faintest humming somewhere in the distance, which shortly resolved into the drone of a plane. "Aha!" Christian said with a triumphant grin. "They're finally here. I hope Ingrid's got that suite ready."

"I'm sure she has, my love," Leslie said, patting his shoulder. "I know you're trying to make a good impression on Esbjörn, but Ingrid's never been less than efficient, so quit worrying. She'll even have the triplets' room looking presentable." She was glad to hear the laugh that got from Christian. Just then the charter sailed into view overhead, and they settled their stances, watching it blink in and out from behind trees before sinking too low to see. Not quite ten minutes later, it rounded the bend in the sheltered lagoon where Roarke had taken care to have the plane dock built, and drew in to the landing ramp where the attendants tied it down.

Carl Johan and Amalia emerged first, their weary faces alight with the relief of having the long trip finished at last. They beamed at Christian and Leslie on their way down the ramp, and Amalia threw her hands into the air when she stepped onto the grass. "How wonderful to feel the ground under my feet again!" she said happily.

"You wouldn't enjoy being a bird, then?" Christian kidded, hugging his older brother and then his sister-in-law with a loss of restraint he never showed around anyone outside the family. "Welcome, it's good to see you. How were the flights?"

"Other than long and very boring, they were fine," said Carl Johan. "Amalia and I both thought we had brought enough reading material to alleviate the problem, but even after we swapped books, it still wasn't enough." They all laughed, just as Rudolf stepped out of the hatch and pulled a stroller through after him. "Ah…here comes our newest family man."

"It's hard to believe Rudolf's a father now," Christian remarked, watching his nephew reach in and take the hand of his young wife, just now appearing in the hatchway with a blanket-swathed bundle on one shoulder. "How is he with the baby?"

"Sometimes I'm not sure that's our son," Amalia admitted with a grin, her eyes on the younger couple, like those of the others. "Gerhard has made numerous remarks about that old film about the body-stealers."

"Body-snatchers," Christian said and grinned too. "Good, then, hm?"

"Wonderful," Carl Johan said, shaking his head a little. "Neither he nor Louisa will even hear of the idea of a nanny, as Anna-Laura's done with Lisi. Katarina is going to have the full attention of both her parents."

"And she's likely to grow up chafing under it, unless they let up or have at least one more baby to divide their affections," Christian remarked, grinning. "Does she look like anyone yet?"

"No more than your triplets did at that age," Amalia told him. Rudolf and Louisa came within earshot then, and she shook her head at them. "For fate's sake, you two, put that baby in the stroller. Why else would you have brought it?"

Rudolf gave her an admonishing look. "She just fell asleep, Mother, so we don't want to rock the boat. _Hallå då,_ Uncle Christian…Aunt Leslie." He followed each individual greeting with a hug. "It's good to see you two. What'd you do with my cousins?"

"They're at home with Ingrid," Christian told him. "You'll see them soon enough; I expect Karina and Susanna in particular will be enthralled over Katarina. Well, can we see her, then? You wouldn't even send me a photo to add to the family website."

"Every picture taken of her so far is copyrighted by some journalist, because all the ones that exist have been published in magazines," Louisa said wearily. "Could you do it, Prince Christian? At least that way I won't have some greedy photographer suing me."

"I'll be glad to…and for fate's sake, Louisa, you're part of the family now, so you need not call me 'Prince'. You could do as Liselotta and Daniel and Adriana do, and just call me Christian." He smiled at the still-shy young mother and glanced up the dock, where an attendant was lifting a wheelchair through the hatch. "Ah, here comes Kristina."

"Should Esbjörn really be lifting her that way?" Leslie asked, watching him step out after the wheelchair with Kristina in his arms. Anna-Laura exited in his wake as he settled the dowager queen into her wheelchair.

"He's just fine, Leslie," Carl Johan assured her. "He regularly works out with Roald, and has grown quite proficient in karate. Between that and the good food he's had since he escaped, he's quite recovered his health." They watched Esbjörn wheel Kristina down the ramp, with Anna-Laura walking alongside the chair.

"I wondered if someone would be here to welcome us," Christian's sister called out, beaming as they neared the others. "Oh, it's lovely to be here again. What do you think, Esbjörn? Christian certainly made a wise choice to stay here with Leslie, rather than make her move to Lilla Jordsö and our frigid winters, hm?"

"It's more beautiful than in the photographs we saw," Esbjörn said, stopping the wheelchair at the foot of the ramp and, like Kristina, gazing all around. "The castle secretary was right—we definitely needed to get away, and this is the perfect place for it."

Kristina peered up at her youngest brother-in-law. "You'll have to show me where you and Leslie were married, Christian. I would have come with my girls, but Arnulf said he needed someone else with him since the entire remainder of the family had come here for the wedding. That was one thing I regretted letting him do. What an amazingly beautiful place this is. And I look forward to meeting Mr. Roarke."

"Arnulf should have simply gotten off his a—forgive me, his butt, and come along with everyone else," Christian said, tensing subtly as he still always did whenever someone mentioned his late oldest brother. He glanced at Leslie and grinned, looking just a little sheepish. "I'm sorry, my Rose, you know how I get about Arnulf. Well, everyone, why don't we get you to your accommodations. Anna-Laura, Esbjörn, you can come along with me in our car and I'll take you to our house. Leslie has a rover for the others."

Kristina looked at the rover's open sides with some trepidation. "No doors? Carl Johan, Amalia, I think it's better that I sit in between you two."

"Will there be room for all of us?" Rudolf put in, squinting at it.

Leslie nodded. "If Carl Johan and Amalia don't mind, they can flank Kristina in the middle seat. I put one of the triplets' car seats in the back for Katarina, and Louisa can sit next to her. You could fold up the stroller and put it on the floor back there, and sit up front with me if you like."

Rudolf looked the car over and finally nodded; Leslie saw Carl Johan and Amalia exchange weary, amused looks. "I suppose that should work," their son said. "Come on then, Louisa _söta_, I'll help you settle Katta in." He took his wife's arm and pushed the stroller along towards the car.

"_Herregud,"_ said Christian, astonished. "That sounded judgmental."

Carl Johan rolled his eyes. "That's what we mean, partly, by saying we're not sure it's our son. Everything must pass his rigorous inspections, or it's not good enough for his precious baby girl. Some of the castle staff have grown tired of his exacting standards, and we've been thinking about talking to him."

"For all the good it'd probably do," Christian observed, grinning and taking the handles of Kristina's wheelchair. "He'll get over it. It might take a few months, before Louisa gets fed up, or it might take a few years, when Katarina gets fed up. But someone will eventually, so don't worry."

"You're no help," Amalia told him, making him laugh. "I suppose it's enough we're staying in different places." Their conversations continued along as Christian pushed Kristina's wheelchair and attendants brought luggage to a third waiting vehicle; they assisted with getting Kristina into the car, and Christian waved to his wife when he pulled out with a loaded trunk and Anna-Laura and Esbjörn in the backseat.

Leslie made a quick call to Julie at the B&B, advising her that Rudolf, Louisa and Katarina were here and would arrive there in a few more minutes. "Don't worry," Julie assured her, "their room's all ready to go. Rogan even found Rory's crib in the attic and set it up for them, so they've got nothing to worry about."

"Great, thanks, Julie," Leslie said. Just about then one of the attendants wheeled Kristina's chair to the jeep to add it to the other things the royal family had brought with them, and Carl Johan and Amalia climbed in on either side of the dowager queen, while Rudolf fussed in the back with the straps in Katarina's car seat. "Gotta go, we're almost ready. See you in a few."

"Rudolf," Louisa's exhausted-sounding voice finally said, "please. Katta's fine, really. Go sit up front with your aunt and let's get going, so we can get settled in our room and you can stop worrying about whether anyone here besides you knows how to take care of a baby. You're driving me nuts and you're going to wake up Katta."

Kristina burst into giggles, and Carl Johan and Amalia both praised Louisa lavishly—out of pure relief, Leslie suspected, grinning—for finally telling Rudolf where to get off. As for Rudolf himself, he looked disgruntled, shaking his head and stalking around to the front to slide in beside Leslie. "No one appreciates me," he grumbled.

"It has nothing to do with appreciation, Rudolf Harald Reinhold," Amalia scolded. "It has to do with everyone being thoroughly sick of your autocratic tendencies when it comes to that daughter of yours. I sometimes think that if you were equipped for it, you'd nurse her yourself and tell poor Louisa to go find something else to do."

"I just don't want anything happening to her!" Rudolf said, annoyed, twisting in his seat to glare at his mother while Leslie sent the car forward. "She's my daughter, Mother. I've waited thirty years to become a father, and so help me, I'm not going to let anyone harm the smallest hair on her."

"Babies are tougher than they look, even when they're as young as Katarina," Leslie put in, daring to add her two cents. "She's not that fragile, Rudolf. I suppose I could understand your attitude about anyone else messing with her, if I felt like giving you that big a margin for error. But from what Louisa said, I've got a funny feeling you don't even trust _her_ to take proper care of the baby."

Rudolf stared at her, his mouth open and his face reddening, while his parents and aunt hooted gleefully from behind them. "You've pegged it, Leslie," Carl Johan said.

"Louisa?" Kristina said, speaking in an odd mixture of _jordiska_ and English, heavy on the former. "What do you think?"

"_Thank_ you, Aunt Leslie," Louisa called wearily from the back, and Rudolf groaned and slumped in his seat, scowling while the older adults howled again. Leslie, snickering to herself, just kept driving, deciding it might be a good idea to give Rudolf a break and go to the B&B first.

A little less than half an hour later, she was back at the main house; she got there at the same time Christian pulled in with Esbjörn and Anna-Laura. "Thought you were taking them home," she said curiously when the three got out.

"I did," Christian said. "We just dropped off their luggage and they changed into more comfortable clothes. We thought we'd come back and enjoy lunch here with Mr. Roarke. Esbjörn hasn't met him, remember."

"That's true," Leslie conceded. "Well, I'm sure Mariki's putting out refreshments, if you're interested after all that flying. Come on in."

"That sounds wonderful," Anna-Laura said, perking up. "We had a scanty breakfast in Honolulu, and of course they don't feed you on the charter. Do you know what might be on the lunch menu?"

"Probably something light," Leslie mused, leading the others in. Roarke was at the desk, staring at a letter, but looked up when they came in. "Hi, Father."

Roarke dropped the letter and immediately stood up, bowing to Esbjörn and Anna-Laura, who dismissed the formality and shook hands. "Welcome to my island," Roarke said, smiling. "Are your accommodations satisfactory?"

Anna-Laura laughed. "Well, since we're staying at Christian and Leslie's house, I find them quite satisfactory. Christian occasionally dabbled in drawing rudimentary house plans in his younger years, but I never realized he had any knack for it till he designed that house and had it built. I'd forgotten how comfortable that suite is—the last time I saw it was before the triplets were born." She smiled then. "I want to present to you my husband, Esbjörn Lagnebring. Esbjörn, this is Leslie's father, Mr. Roarke."

"How do you do, Your Highness," Roarke said, bowing slightly once more.

"Much better now, thank you, Mr. Roarke," Esbjörn said with a broad grin. "I've been relearning how all my old favorite foods taste, enjoying the simple act of going outside to breathe in the fresh air, reading all sorts of good books, studying martial arts with my son…I can't begin to list all the things I missed during my captivity that I've taken up again."

"Oh fate, fresh air," groaned Anna-Laura. "The temperatures could have been hot enough to bake a cake or cold enough to freeze a martini, and he'd still go outside just to take long, deep breaths."

Roarke chuckled. "As a matter of fact, I can understand his point entirely, Your Highness," he remarked. "After spending so much of his life in one room, I must say I can't blame your husband at all for reveling in everything life has to offer, even its extremes. Please, sit down. My cook is preparing enough food for lunch to accommodate everyone in the family, so we need only invite them to come and take part."

"I'll handle that," Christian offered and picked up the phone while Esbjörn, Anna-Laura, Roarke and Leslie settled down around the tea table near the steps. Esbjörn was gazing around the room as they sat, and looked on with interest when Mariki came in with a tray and set it on the table, pouring tea for everyone except Christian and Leslie, who preferred her nonalcoholic sangria.

"You have impeccable taste, Mr. Roarke," Esbjörn commented when he'd taken a sip of the tea. "In everything, it seems—tea, décor, manners, even offspring." Leslie turned red and everyone laughed.

"That's only because he raised me very well," Leslie said, watching Christian come back over to join them. "Are they coming, my love?"

"They're on their way," he said, sitting beside her. "Well, I suspect once you've all eaten and had a chance to just relax, you're going to find yourselves overcome by jet lag, and we won't hear from you for a few days." He grinned at his sister's dirty look. "It's not a jibe, Anna-Laura. You're on the opposite side of the planet from home, so it's going to take a good while to adjust."

"And that's okay," Leslie added. "Father and I are going about business as usual while you're all here, so if you want to lie low for a few days, go ahead. The staff can take care of anything you need. It's your vacation, so enjoy it any way you want."

"As long as it's legal," Christian tossed in, making Esbjörn burst into laughter and getting a sharp look from Anna-Laura. He grinned unrepentantly. "Don't tell me you forgot how much I enjoy teasing you. Still want to stay with us, _äldresyster?"_

"Keep it up, _ungstebror,_ and I'll get my revenge," Anna-Laura threatened, mostly good-naturedly. "Don't mind us, Mr. Roarke, Christian has been like this ever since he could talk, and the two of us are just tired and looking forward to several days of complete peace and quiet. After that we may decide to take advantage of some of the attractions."

"Peace and quiet?" Christian repeated. "You really picked the wrong place to stay, in that case. You seem to have forgotten we have three two-year-olds."

"That's different," Anna-Laura retorted. "Children make things interesting."

"That's one way to put it," Leslie remarked, setting off Christian and Esbjörn again. "Okay, I guess that's enough teasing. If you'll all excuse me for a couple of minutes, I'll go see how lunch is progressing."

Lunch, in fact, was quite lively; the triplets were with them for this one, since Christian had brought them back along with his sister and brother-in-law, and they had been playing quietly in the upstairs spare room. Even Kristina remarked on how well-behaved they were, particularly for two-year-olds, and Louisa said that she hoped her own baby would be equally good. "Not if she gets spoiled by Rudolf," was Kristina's comment.

"Oh, you still won't let up on me, will you," grunted Rudolf, who had made a rather grand point of setting a baby carrier containing the two-month-old princess on a small table directly beside his chair. "When all I want is to protect my daughter."

"Smother her is more like it," Kristina said tartly, as usual having her say in her native tongue. Christian leaned over now and then and gave Roarke a succinct whispered translation as she carried on. "For fate's sake, Rudolf, you won't even let the child's own mother have her when she isn't feeding her."

"_Herregud,_ Aunt Kristina, it's only to give Louisa some rest," Rudolf said, rolling his eyes with exasperation. "She never gets a full night's sleep these days, and I want to do my part in taking care of my child."

Christian cleared his throat. "Rudolf," he said, "I wonder if you realize how possessive you sound. Katarina is Louisa's baby too, or have you forgotten?"

"Of course not," Rudolf said, giving him a narrow-eyed look. "Why?"

"Because of the way you refer to her as _your_ child all the time," Christian said, raising a brow and making Rudolf stare at him. "As I recall, you weren't the pregnant one; you're not the one who gave birth, and you're not the one lactating." He and Leslie had learned very early on that Louisa planned to breast-feed the baby. "When Katarina cries to be fed, do you check her over for every other possibility first before handing her over to Louisa?"

Roarke had to stifle a smile; Leslie swallowed back a giggle at the flabbergasted look on Rudolf's face. But the rest of the family exercised no such restraint; they were grinning at him without the slightest shame. "Trust Christian to pin you to the wall with the most pertinent questions," Carl Johan observed cheerfully. "This is what we've been trying to tell you for the last six or seven weeks, Rudolf. It's wonderful that you love your daughter so much; it'll make you a very good father. But there's a fine line between 'doting' and 'smothering'. We're merely trying to tell you to be careful not to cross it."

"Has he planted one single thing at all the entire spring and summer?" Leslie couldn't help asking, and at that the whole family broke down, including Louisa. Rudolf groaned out loud and covered his face with his hands. Even the triplets were giggling energetically, as if they understood what was going on. It was possible they did get some of it, Leslie thought, glancing fondly at her children.

Louisa patted Rudolf's shoulder and said, "As a matter of fact, he hasn't! He was too busy worrying about me while I was pregnant, and then worrying about Katarina when she was born. Sometimes I feel more like the wet nurse than the mother, and I'm pretty sure wet nurses went out with the nineteenth century, or at least the early twentieth. If I'm not feeding Katta, Rudolf's got her. All his outside activities have fallen completely by the wayside since winter ended. I barely get to hold my own child and I never get to play with her. She's going to be strictly Daddy's girl if he keeps it up, and I'll be a nobody to her."

"Except a food source," noted Carl Johan sympathetically. "Well, Rudolf, your wife's spoken. I daresay it's time you stopped obsessing over the baby and got back to some of your usual pursuits. I have little doubt that tree-planting group of yours has missed you greatly, and we've had calls all summer long about whether you're available for beautification projects. I think Leslie might tell you to, uh, get a life."

Anna-Laura seemed to take some pity finally. "Oh, now, let up on the man. He can't help it if he's showing just how new a father he is. Pretty soon he'll get used to it."

"I just want to know one thing," Christian said, playfully using his fork to point at Rudolf. "Who changes the diapers?" At the laughter that brought on, they finally agreed to change the subject, which drifted on to whatever the family thought they might do, or not do, while they were vacationing.

But there had been something on Leslie's mind all the while, and it wasn't till after the family had retreated to their assorted accommodations and Christian had taken his sister, brother-in-law, and the triplets back home to the Enclave for the afternoon that she had the chance to ask. "What was that letter you were reading when we came in?" she asked Roarke, noticing the sheet of paper and the envelope still lying on the desk.

Roarke frowned at the letter, picking it up, glancing over it and then folding it. "It's a fantasy request," he said a little heavily after a moment. "Nothing for you to worry about at the moment. I haven't decided yet whether to grant it." He slipped the letter into its envelope, then smiled faintly at her. "But if I do, believe me, child, you'll be the first to know."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § - October 13, 2006

Later in the day Leslie would look back on the moments at the plane dock and realize that Roarke had never once let on that he was about to drop a small bomb. There was no sense of foreboding or any other negative emotion about him as the rover dropped them off in their usual spot and Roarke reminded everyone to smile for the new arrivals before signaling at the band. This year's welcoming music was new, a slow but cheerful Hawaiian tune accompanied by three hula dancers who swayed gracefully back and forth, smiling benignly all the while.

First to step out of the plane's hatch were a couple. The male half was a somewhat weatherbeaten-looking youngish man, with an already receding hairline. He was whipcord-thin, and what parts of his head still bore hair sported sparse black tufts. There were deep squint lines bracketing his eyes, and long vertical dents enclosed his thin lips like parentheses. At his side was a curvaceous redhead looking barely out of college, wearing shorts and a Hawaiian-print halter top, in sharp contrast to the man, who wore a plain white T-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans with irregular bleach spots dotting the legs. "They're not exactly a matched set, are they?" Leslie commented.

Roarke smiled faintly. "No, they don't appear so, but they are together. That is Johnny Farquharson, a race-car driver from Atchison, Kansas; and with him is his girlfriend of four years, Miss Glory McConnell."

Leslie peered at them. "If Johnny Farquharson has the fantasy, then I'll take a shot in the dark and say he wants to win a major race."

"Very good, Leslie, you're correct," Roarke said, smiling fully this time. "Mr. Farquharson is thirty-four years old and has been involved in the professional racing circuit since he was nineteen. He has won several minor races, just enough to keep him among the perennial hopefuls, but has never achieved better than twentieth place in a major race. So he has high hopes of winning this weekend's charity race, the Fantasy Island Drivers' Invitational, which is to be held tomorrow. The charities the race is to benefit include UNICEF and your friend Michiko's Worldwide Orphans Fund, among others."

"Well, I guess it's for a decent cause, then," Leslie mused, frowning. She had never been a fan of auto racing, feeling it wasted valuable fuel, particularly in this energy-conscious day and age. But she knew racing was still popular and kept her views to herself. "But that's very interesting, how the guy's been in this for fifteen years without winning even one big race. He must suffer from phenomenal bad luck."

"So it would seem. And now Miss McConnell is showing signs of restlessness. In fact, the young lady has issued an ultimatum: he must win a race, or she will leave him."

Leslie scowled at the woman but decided to withhold her opinion; she was afraid she'd say something overly incendiary. Roarke looked at her with mild surprise at her lack of comment, but let it go and instead shifted his attention to the dock, where another couple were just climbing through the hatch. The man was almost as lean as Johnny Farquharson but considerably taller, with windblown ash-blond hair and a perpetually searching look about him. Though he was dressed in a business suit, the jacket was open and the knot in his tie was loose; he looked rumpled, as though he'd slept in his clothes. The woman was clad in a pale-yellow linen pantsuit, and her dark hair was caught back in a wildly curly ponytail; she squinted in the sunlight, hesitated when offered a drink and then accepted, after shooting the man one surprisingly fulminating glance.

"Mr. Douglas Grunewald," Roarke introduced them, "an accomplished journalist from Washington, D.C., and his wife Karen, an English professor at Georgetown University."

"Who has the fantasy?" Leslie asked.

"Mr. Grunewald. He has worked for the _Washington Post_ for the last two decades, and has won several newspaper awards, one of which is the Pulitzer Prize for an article he wrote five years ago. Now his ambition is to research, write and publish a significant book, one that he hopes will make him a best-selling household name."

"How do you mean, 'significant'?" Leslie asked.

Roarke frowned, his face seeming slightly weary somehow. "Recent events have caught his interest; he has diligently reported on them for his newspaper, keeping careful track of everything that took place. Now that he's armed with all his research and interviews, he wants to take the next step and explore the subject to great depth in his planned book. All he needs is access to the proper people."

"I see. And are they here?"

"Indeed they are," Roarke said slowly, glancing at her and then fixing a penetrating gaze on Douglas Grunewald. "They arrived a mere ten days ago."

Something about his tone and those words warned Leslie, and she let her eyeballs slip in his direction before turning her head and regarding him with dread. "What subject, exactly, does he want to write his book about?"

Briefly Roarke closed his eyes before he spoke. "The attempts of Vikslund Oil to gain drilling rights off the coast of Lilla Jordsö, Esbjörn Lagnebring's kidnapping and captivity…and, in particular, the involvement of King Arnulf I and King Arnulf II."

Leslie gasped. "Oh my God, Father…and you're letting him have his fantasy?"

Roarke said nothing, only stood in silence for a moment or two, before the native girl brought his champagne flute and he toasted his guests, with the cheery, welcoming façade that so expertly hid all his other emotions. Leslie had no such dexterity; she found herself wondering how intrusive Douglas Grunewald would turn out to be, and how big an effect his fantasy was going to have on her husband and his family.

‡ ‡ ‡

Johnny Farquharson was a hyperactive sort, Roarke and Leslie shortly discovered; he simply couldn't sit still. Even seated, he kept moving in some way—twitching his fingers, shifting his weight, rolling his shoulders, tapping his foot. When he spoke, he gesticulated with the enthusiasm of a Grateful Dead fan with a backstage pass. "I _love_ racing, Mr. Roarke, always have and always will. Racing's my life. I've watched races on TV as far back as I can remember, and from the time I was four or five, I wanted to be a driver. My mother says I used to walk around the house pretending to drive—I'd use a hanger or a Frisbee for a steering wheel." Roarke smiled, and even Leslie had to chuckle at the image. "So when I got my driver's license, I started training right then and there to become a pro. I've always been focused on this one thing, that's how I got started only three years after I got into training. And I love the circuit. Nothing like it."

Roarke nodded. "I must confess, Mr. Farquharson, that I'm surprised you haven't become discouraged over the years, with only a few wins to your credit."

Johnny shrugged his shoulders amiably, still rocking back and forth with overflowing nervous energy while he spoke. "I suppose it'd be easy for somebody with less focus and ambition than I have. Somebody with…uh, pardon the pun—with less drive." His hosts provided the requisite polite smiles. "But this is all I've ever wanted to do. I have plenty of good racing years left in me yet, and I figure the more races I participate in, the more training and experience I get under my belt. And when the time's right, I'll start getting the wins." He sighed and slumped in his chair, letting his hands dangle off the arms. "But it's Glory who pushed me into this, y'see. Met her five years ago at the second race I won, and we got together about a year later. We've been good together, and we've talked marriage a few times. Just never quite had the chance to stop long enough to make plans for a wedding. But the last time we discussed it was months ago, and then all of a sudden she comes up with this bombshell—win a race or she walks out."

Leslie could no longer hold back her idea of that. "Sounds pretty shallow to me."

Johnny sat up, eager to defend his girlfriend. "She's just frustrated, Mrs. Enstad, that's all. I don't blame her a bit—I get that way myself sometimes. The difference is, I'm more patient than she is. I guess she just wants to be seen as the consort of a winner. She wants to bask in the reflected limelight, I suppose. Heck, we've both seen the perks that the top drivers and their wives and children get. She's just looking for some of her own."

"So what you're saying is that this is really more Glory's fantasy than yours," Leslie said, frowning. "Is that it?"

"Yeah, I guess it is," Johnny said, shrugging again and fitting his fingertips together before tapping them in rapid sequence against each other. "She's been carrying on like this for a couple or three months now, y'see. Then we got word about the Fantasy Island Drivers' Invitational, and she just seized on that. She says, 'Let's go for it, Johnny, let's ask Mr. Roarke to let you win this race,' she says. 'Then you'll really be somebody,' she says." He looked up at their silence. "To tell you the truth, as much as I love racing, I love Glory, too. Racing'll always be there, but Glory won't. So I want this win for her."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other; then Roarke addressed Johnny with, "Has it occurred to you to wonder about Miss McConnell's true motives, Mr. Farquharson? Forgive me for suggesting this possibility, but it seems to me that she is simply looking for some measure of celebrity, and if she can't find it with you, she is willing to look for someone with better fortune."

Johnny made an impatient gesture. "Yeah, well, she's been loyal so far, and I saw no reason not to agree when she asked. She hasn't let me down yet. Just one win, that's all I'm asking. It'll renew her faith in me, give us both confidence in me, let me give her all the things she deserves. She's a good girl, Mr. Roarke, she really is. And I love her."

Roarke thought this over for a couple of minutes, then smiled a little. "Very well. You must understand, of course, that once the fantasy and the race are under way, I cannot do anything to control them." Johnny nodded, and Roarke arose, satisfied. "In that case, you may return to your bungalow to change into the appropriate attire. One of my staff will be around to take you and Miss McConnell to the racetrack. Final qualifying heats are this afternoon. Since it is part of your fantasy, you are in third position for the first heat. But I must caution you that from that point on, your standing and your finishing position will be contingent entirely upon that ambition and focus you mentioned—that _drive_ to win."

Johnny fairly jumped out of his chair and vigorously shook Roarke's hand. "That's all I'll need, Mr. Roarke. Thanks a million—you don't know how much I appreciate this." He grinned for the first time, then streaked out of the house without another word.

Leslie let a good ten seconds elapse, to be sure he was really gone, before she bluntly voiced the thought that wouldn't go away. "From his description of her—sketchy though it is—Glory McConnell sounds like a racing groupie."

"Leslie," Roarke said sharply.

"Even you implicitly suggested that yourself," she pointed out.

Roarke sighed and regarded her with a touch of exasperation. "Having not yet met the lady in question, my dear Leslie, I am compelled to remind you that we both must beware of snap judgments. Perhaps there is more to Miss McConnell's ambitions than Mr. Farquharson is aware of, so I suggest you reserve your opinions until we have spoken with her. And I trust that sooner or later, we will." He cleared his throat, as if to signify that the discussion had ended, before casting a glance at the grandfather clock near the steps. "Now, if you'll kindly go to the kitchen and ask Mariki to bring out some refreshments, we should be ready for the Grunewalds when they arrive here."

"Oh, them," mumbled Leslie, even less sanguine about this fantasy than the other. She could only be grateful that Christian and his family weren't around as she headed for the kitchen and put in her request to Mariki.

Douglas Grunewald came alone when it was time for his appointment; Leslie let him in, greeting him with polite reserve, and showed him into the study before closing the door after him and slowly following him in. Roarke greeted him and shook hands, and both men sat down while Leslie silently poured beverages for them and then withdrew. Roarke, a little surprised, watched her leave the house, then focused on Grunewald to find that he had been watching as well. "I take it your daughter isn't very happy with me," Grunewald said.

"She hasn't spoken much about it," Roarke admitted, "but her attitude suggests she is not very pleased about your fantasy. And I must tell you myself that I can see her point of view. I have read a rather large body of your previous work, Mr. Grunewald. You are very thorough in your fact-gathering, and that impresses me greatly."

"That's what won me the Pulitzer," Grunewald said with a shrug. "I pride myself in making sure I get every bit of accurate information I can." He gulped a few times from his cup and regarded Roarke with a rueful look. "I have to tell you, I've never encountered as much resistance with a project as I have with this one. I've attempted several times to contact the Vikslund family in Lilla Jordsö so I can get their side of things, but I haven't received any reply so far. I was told, when I contacted the prison Ingela Vikslund is incarcerated in, that she's not allowed to receive any mail, and only family can visit her. I'm still hoping to get her side of the story, but I also pride myself on being fair and presenting all sides of an issue—so I have to have access to the royal family as well. I met up with the same stone wall I did with the Vikslunds. Then I heard that quite a few of the family members were planning a vacation here, so I decided to play my last ace and ask you to grant me my fantasy."

"I see," Roarke said without inflection.

"If I can get to the royal family, maybe that'll open up the Vikslunds. When they hear that the royals have agreed to talk, they'll want their side of the story told as well, for whatever reasons they may have. If I can crack one side, the other side's bound to come forth with their point of view. You see?"

Roarke nodded. "Yes, I believe I do. Unfortunately, I am not certain you'll be able to convince the royal family to participate in your project, even here and even at my request. I don't have influence over people or their wills, Mr. Grunewald. I can only provide you the opportunity to present your case."

Grunewald glanced over his shoulder at the empty foyer and sighed a little. "To tell you the truth, I was hoping your daughter would stay and listen in on this conversation; I thought it might help me get a foot in the door at least."

"She is very protective of her husband," Roarke said, "and in the wake of their marriage, his family have accepted her fully and wholeheartedly. Frankly, Mr. Grunewald, Leslie is biased, and understandably so. While she was not involved with the royal family at the time the events in question took place, she is nevertheless very squarely in their camp when it comes to the aftermath."

"Yeah, I can understand that," Grunewald admitted, resting his elbows on his knees and studying his interlaced fingers. "But this is my fantasy, and since you agreed to grant it, you're obligated now." He looked up and stared deliberately at an expressionless Roarke. "I know your daughter is also your assistant, and as such, she too is obligated to provide whatever help she can in seeing that your business is a success. I think it's only fair that she be here and listen to my pitch."

Roarke considered his words for a moment or two; then he cleared his throat. "As I mentioned, I have read a large body of your work, and have been very impressed with the thoroughness of your fact-finding and of your reporting of those facts, in the most unbiased way possible. However, you should realize that your very tenacity may be off-putting to those whom you wish to interview. Your questions may very quickly cross a line into what for them would be extremely uncomfortable territory." He let that sink in, then leaned forward himself, mirroring Grunewald's posture and spearing the reporter with a look that seemed to freeze the man where he sat. "You say that you believe my daughter, in the role of my assistant, is obligated to help me see to it that my fantasy-granting enterprise succeeds. I know full well what you really mean, Mr. Grunewald: she is required to lend her assistance in your fantasy, as well as all others I choose to grant, and therefore you feel that you have what I believe is called 'a sure thing'."

Grunewald blinked once or twice, though his expression didn't change. "Oh?"

"I told you that she's protective of her husband. I in my turn am protective of my daughter. You may speak with her, you may make your request of her, but you will then leave it at that. Whatever decision is to be made thereafter is Leslie's alone. Am I clear?"

"Clear, Mr. Roarke," Grunewald said, rising. "In that case, I guess I'll head back to my bungalow and await the grand meeting."

Roarke didn't bother to dignify this with a reply. Maybe he had been just a little too hard on the man, but something about Grunewald's attitude bothered him. He went to sit behind the desk, awaiting Leslie's return while he did some paperwork.

It was less than twenty minutes before she came back, bearing the day's mail and a small paper bag. "So is he gone?" she asked.

Roarke looked up as she put the mail on the desk. "Yes," he said. "However…" Giving her no chance to say anything else, he told her about his meeting with Grunewald.

Leslie stared at him. "So he thinks he can get his foot in the proverbial door because, being your assistant, I'm required to do whatever he asks so that he gets his fantasy."

"Well summarized, Leslie," Roarke said, a sympathetic gleam in his eyes. "I realize you find this repugnant; but I ask you to at least meet with him and let him make his request. Whatever else he may be, I do know that he's a fair man, and will report both sides objectively and completely." He smiled. "Douglas Grunewald did not win that Pulitzer Prize for nothing."

She had to laugh at that. "No, I guess they don't hand those out to just any old hack writer. Well, okay, I'll talk to him. But after that—well, I don't mind telling you, I dread explaining all this to Christian. He'll blow his top."

Roarke grinned; they were both all too well aware of Christian's opinion of reporters. "Perhaps, my child, you should consider explaining it to him in such a way that he may be only a little indignant, as opposed to insanely enraged."

"Then you'd better wish me luck," she said, grinning back. "Okay, so is Mr. Grunewald at his bungalow, then?"

Within ten minutes she was knocking on the Grunewalds' bungalow door, and was faintly surprised to find it answered by Karen Grunewald, whose welcoming smile was more than a little apologetic. "Mrs. Enstad. Come right in, please—sit down anywhere you like. Can I get you anything?"

"No, no, thank you," Leslie said, easing into the nearest chair, ill at ease. Mostly, she told herself, that was because of the acrobatics her stomach was performing. "My father said your husband wants to speak with me."

Karen Grunewald's face flattened with annoyance and she compressed her lips, started for the closed door to the bedroom, then halted abruptly and turned to Leslie with pleading in her eyes. "I've told him not to do it," she said, as if begging for forgiveness. "I keep telling him it's only going to invade your family's privacy. It's intrusive and unnecessary and …well, hell, it's just plain damned nosy."

Leslie let out a startled giggle at her vehemence. "Well, it might be at that, but I'm told your husband is an excellent reporter with scruples. Anyway, the final decision really isn't mine, it's my husband's and his family's." _If I even tell them,_ she thought, and swallowed thickly. She realized she was afraid they were all going to hate her forever after, and that Christian might go so far as to demand a divorce. Some slightly more rational section of her brain told her it was pure nonsense to think this way, but she had seen what Christian had gone through in the wake of the revelations about his father and brother, as well as some of what the rest of his family had endured. So she was unduly worried.

Karen sighed so heavily that her body visibly sagged before she said, "All right, I'll get him." She crossed the room to the bedroom door and rapped sharply on it three times. "Doug, Mrs. Enstad's here."

The door flew open almost immediately and Douglas Grunewald emerged, a strangely eager puppy-dog look on his face. He strode across the room with his hand extended, and Leslie shook. "Hi, Mrs. Enstad, thank you so much for coming. I'm Doug Grunewald…"

"I know," she said.

"Of course, of course. Mind if I sit? Good, thanks." He sat on the sofa perpendicular to her without waiting for her response. "C'mon over here and sit with me, honey." He signaled at Karen, who came only reluctantly; Grunewald didn't seem to notice and focused intently on Leslie. "I guess Mr. Roarke's told you why I'm here."

She nodded and said in an unintentionally tight voice, "Yes, he did."

"Good. Well, see, I really think this is a worthwhile project. It's a good way to get the full story out, so people don't go drawing their own, probably erroneous, conclusions about the people involved. What we want is to tell the complete story of what happened and why it happened. The only way to get the real story, you see, is to speak to those who were directly affected. Which, of course, means your husband and everyone in the royal family who was alive back then and old enough to remember it."

"Not all of the family are here," Leslie felt compelled to point out. "Christian's brother and sister are here with their spouses, and his sister-in-law Kristina. Otherwise, only his nephew Rudolf and his wife and daughter came along."

"The key figures are all here, though," Grunewald said, excitement igniting his lean, handsome features. Absurdly, Leslie thought that his face had too many sharp edges to suit her, and concluded silently that Christian was better looking. "Particularly Queen Kristina —she's the one who would have been closest to Arnulf II, and might have more insight than anyone else in the family. It's a shame he and Arnulf I are dead, but it's my hope they might have left something behind in their personal papers. If I could have a chance to speak to your husband, and/or his family…"

He trailed off expectantly, and Leslie pulled in a deep breath in an attempt to beat back her nerves. "I can try," she said doubtfully. "I can't promise anything. Being in the business you're in, I'm sure you know how my husband feels about reporters."

Grunewald laughed. "Yeah, I do," he admitted cheerfully. "But this is a story that just cries out to be told—so that people know the truth, and not a pile of uninformed conjecture. If you can talk to them and get me the opportunity to meet with them, I'd be grateful."

"Like I said, I'll try." Leslie arose, hoping to end the encounter. "When I get an answer, I'll let you know, but try to be patient. After all, it's a sensitive issue."

"How well I know," Grunewald assured her. "All the more reason the truth should be told. Okay, thanks for your time, Mrs. Enstad, I really appreciate it."

Karen saw her to the door and shot a glance back at her husband. Lowering her voice, she murmured, "I'm really sorry, Mrs. Enstad."

Leslie looked at her in surprise, seeing in her peripheral that Grunewald was heading back to the bedroom. She cleared her throat to stall; when the door closed behind him, she gave Karen her full attention and asked, "What about?"

Karen turned scarlet. "This whole stupid thing. I don't think it's right. I've told him again and again, leave it alone, let it lie, let it die out. But he can't stop picking at it and dissecting it to death. Now he wants to publicize the thing and drag your family's name back through the mud. I…I just wanted to go on record as opposing it."

"Oh," Leslie murmured, surprised. "Well…don't worry about it. It's pretty clear to me that this is your husband's project, and his alone."

"Thank you," Karen said, but Leslie deduced from her quiet, weary tone that she didn't believe what Leslie had just told her. "I'm sorry." The words floated after Leslie as she stepped out the door and all the way to the lane.

Roarke was out when she got back, leaving her to stew for the rest of the morning as she halfheartedly sorted out the mail. For the first time, she had no enthusiasm about the weekend, and wanted nothing more than to flee home, dive into bed and yank the covers over her head, and stay there till the Grunewalds left on Monday morning. _Maybe till Christian's family leaves for home,_ she thought dismally.

Her only measure of relief came when Christian showed up alone to share lunch with her and Roarke. At least she wouldn't have to face an entire firing squad. Still, she put it off, playing with her food till she got the expected scolding from Mariki and Christian, as a result, took note. "What's got her on your back this time?"

Roarke looked up and asked, "Did you speak to Mr. Grunewald, Leslie?"

A series of hot-and-cold sensations sluiced through her. "Yeah," she said, reaching for her glass of mango juice and hiding behind it.

"A fantasizer?" Christian asked mildly, and Roarke nodded. "Whatever he said, it seems to have you shaking in your shoes, my Rose."

She gulped back some more juice to avoid having to reply, and he put his full attention to her when the silence stretched. His hazel eyes narrowed slightly and he began to look suspicious. "What exactly is the matter?"

She flashed a pleading look at Roarke, who said a little pointedly, "Only you know what the man said, Leslie. I suggest you let Christian know."

Leslie put her glass down, her stomach suddenly taking a dive off a sheer cliff, and braced her elbow on the table so she could rest her forehead in her hand. "The guest's name is Douglas Grunewald, and he's a journalist for the _Washington Post_. He's here because he wants to talk to you and your family about writing a book about the oil thing."

"The oil thing?" Christian repeated blankly.

She closed her eyes. "The Vikslunds, and Esbjörn's kidnapping and captivity, and the fact that your father and Arnulf were two of three or four masterminds behind it."

"_Herregud."_ For a long moment that was all Christian said, and finally Leslie dared open her eyes, only to see him staring blindly across the veranda, lost in his own musings. At last he came back to the moment and looked straight at her. "What did you say?"

Desperately she babbled, "I warned him that you can't stand reporters, and that I'd talk to you and the family but I couldn't make any promises. His wife said she's been against the whole thing from the start but there's nothing she can do to dissuade him…"

Christian raised one hand and she choked to a halt, staring huge-eyed at him. "Slow down, my Rose. Now…you said you couldn't promise anything, but you'd talk to us?" She nodded, and he pondered that for a moment. Then he looked at Roarke. "What sort of journalist is this man? Does he have the credentials to back up his intestinal fortitude?"

"Indeed he does. He has been with the _Post_ for more than twenty years, and has won a number of journalism awards, most notably the Pulitzer Prize."

Christian's eyes widened. "Ah, I see." He considered it for a few more minutes, and then began to smile. "You know," he mused at length, "this could be a very good thing."

Leslie felt her lower teeth strain to reach the table. _"What?"_

"For one thing," Christian said, "it would be a good vehicle to tell our side of the story, and not just that but the truth of it—as long as this reporter has the integrity not to distort our words or twist them into something they were never meant to be. If he passes my test, and he will definitely have to, then he could clear up the entire thing. Tell the story from the very beginning, reporting every fact precisely as it should be told, and making it clear exactly who was to blame for the entire debacle." He actually looked excited. "Yes, you know, this could be just what we need to clear our names once and for all!"

"You mean y-you're going to talk to him?" Leslie bleated. Never in her life had she been more astounded. If someone had told her aliens were preparing to land in the lane beside the fountain, she would have been less incredulous.

Christian chuckled and amended, "Well, I probably will—I would, that is, if I were the only one who had any say in the matter. I'll have to talk to the others, but that's just a matter of formalities. I'm sure they'll see it as I do." He finally registered her overwhelming disbelief, and started to laugh. "Don't tell me—you were convinced I was going to twist your neck for even suggesting I show my face to a reporter."

"I was," Leslie admitted, dazed. "I really thought you'd rake me over the coals."

He grinned. "No, my darling, as a matter of fact, this could be the one time I've ever found a good reason to let a journalist interview me." He patted her hand. "Don't worry, my Leslie Rose, you won't have to say a word. I'll handle the family, and I'll protect you in case they protest, but I doubt they will. I'll make certain they see it the way I do."

Leslie sagged in relief and let her head fall back, closing her eyes again. "Thank the fates. I still can't quite believe it, but I'm glad anyway."

Roarke chuckled. "In that case, now that you no longer have the sword of Damocles hanging over your head, suppose you eat before Mariki scolds you again." She laughed and complied, her appetite booming in her sheer relief.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § - October 13, 2006

After lunch, with Christian's final promise to speak with his siblings and in-laws, she accompanied Roarke to the race track that had been built many years before for a previous fantasy, one for which she herself hadn't yet been on the island—a former driver haunted by the nightmares of his last race which had ended in a fiery crash he'd been fortunate to survive. Once in a while the track saw use by men—and even a few women—of assorted ages who wanted to emulate one or another professional driver they idolized and know the thrill and danger of auto racing. Other than that, it usually lay silent, seeing little more than packs of bike-riding kids looking for someplace to ride unimpeded.

This weekend it was gaily decked out for the Fantasy Island Drivers' Invitational, with banners and pennants flapping in the breeze, rows of brightly painted bleachers surrounding the perimeter, and an announcer's tower that had been cleaned out and refurbished for the race. Roarke had found the opportunity to grant a radio DJ's fantasy to announce a race, and they could hear the man's voice now, testing the sound system.

Race cars were scattered around the track; one circuit constituted just half a mile, so there was room for only twenty drivers altogether. Most of the cars were in the pits being serviced and readied for the race the next day; a few were circling the track, occasionally shooting forward in a burst of speed before slowing and coasting around the curves. Leslie had little, if any, knowledge of what cars belonged to which drivers, and had never heard of most of the names participating in the race; but Roarke seemed to know most, if not all, of them, and greeted many by name as they called out hellos to him. He knew exactly where he was going, of course, so Leslie simply trailed him along, taking in the busy scene and beginning to think it was possible that Christian and his family might be interested in coming to watch the competition.

Beside a car sporting a gaudy number 94 and advertisements for a well-known brand of snack chips stood Johnny Farquharson, studying the sleek machine with delighted pride. He looked up when he sensed their approach and brightened even more. "Hey, Mr. Roarke! Mrs. Enstad! This looks sensational!"

"I'm glad you are so pleased, Mr. Farquharson," Roarke replied, smiling broadly. "You seem very excited."

"I am. Can't wait for my heat. Say, listen, I want you to meet Glory." He turned to the redhead, who was listening intently to something one of the pit mechanics was telling her. "Hey, hon, come on over here, Mr. Roarke and Mrs. Enstad just got here."

The redhead straightened up and sauntered over to them, with a sashaying walk that made her hips sway and caused almost every pair of male eyes in the area to fasten on her backside. Roarke seemed immune, which didn't much surprise Leslie, devoted as he still was to the memory of Helena Marsh. "Good afternoon, Miss McConnell."

Glory McConnell smiled widely, flashing teeth too perfect to be natural, and offered, "Hi there, Mr. Roarke…Mrs. Enstad." Her gaze, in spite of her apparent artificiality, was genuinely friendly, and Leslie felt herself thawing despite her earlier opinions. "This is a real nice setup you've got yourselves here. Just small enough to be exclusive—which is perfect. Now Johnny'll get his name up there with the big dogs."

Roarke nodded; Leslie simply waited, trying to get the young woman's measure. "You should be aware, Miss McConnell, that Mr. Farquharson's results are contingent upon his performance in this race, as in any other. Fantasy or no, there are no guarantees."

Glory's face lost its radiance. "What? Now wait a minute, that's not fair! I—" She shot Johnny a glance, then impatiently signaled at Roarke and Leslie, bidding them follow her several paces away where she had relative privacy. "I paid three thousand dollars for this fantasy, you know. Cleaned out my life savings to do it, too. You're the man who grants fantasies, right? My fantasy is to see Johnny win this race. It's bought 'n' paid for, and that means you're contractually bound to give me what I want!"

Roarke regarded her in silence till her belligerence had begun to dissolve into a series of squirms; then he smiled, just a little. "Miss McConnell, you misunderstand my position. I have the power to set up the fantasy you want; but any fantasy must operate with a basis of reality. I must use reality to make the fantasy come to life. And it is reality—uncontrollable, unpredictable—that renders any and all fantasies out of my control once they have begun. I am not a god, Miss McConnell. I may have my undue share of power to make certain things happen; but there are forces that are beyond even my ability to manipulate."

Glory looked crushed. "Then what's the use of asking and paying for a fantasy?"

"It provides the opportunity for you to see it come true," Leslie said then, "especially in the case of a fantasy that under normal circumstances would be impossible."

"Precisely," Roarke said. "I have given you the opportunity; that's what you have paid me to do. But, because of that aforementioned necessary basis in reality, the outcome of this fantasy is therefore up to Mr. Farquharson. I am sorry, but you must accept that; I can do nothing to alter it." He took in Glory's flabbergasted look for a moment, then nodded once. "Please excuse us. Leslie?"

When she was sure they were well out of Glory's earshot, Leslie aimed a sidelong look at Roarke. "You know what I think? I think we should have tape-recorded that speech you gave her, so we could put it in the travel brochures. There'd be a lot less carrying on if prospective fantasizers understood that up-front."

Roarke grinned. "If we did, it just might cut down on our business." He laid a hand between her shoulder blades as she laughed, and said, "Why don't we check in on Mr. Waters before we settle down to watch the first qualifying heat."

A couple of hours later, Leslie was a little startled when her cell phone sounded off. She hastily muted the instrumental version of her favorite 80s tune before checking the readout on the front, while Roarke watched curiously. "Oh, it's Christian." She flipped the phone open, keeping her voice low, since she and Roarke were in the announcer's tower watching the initial heat and listening to Dunstan Waters providing excited, if occasionally choppy, commentary. "Hi, my love, what's going on?"

"Hello, my Rose, I'm here with the family in the bungalow, and I've explained to them what your guest wants. Carl Johan, Esbjörn and Rudolf are all for it. Kristina and Amalia think it's a bad idea, and Anna-Laura isn't sure. Carl Johan wanted to know your opinion."

"Oh." Startled, Leslie realized she had never considered it. "To tell you the truth, I haven't thought about it. I mean…I was so caught up in the worry about talking to him, and then telling you, that that was taking up all the space in my brain." She heard Christian laugh and smiled in response.

"Hmm, I see. Well, are you in the middle of something Mr. Roarke requires you to be in on? If you're not, do you think you could come and join the family? As Carl Johan said, you're one of us, and you deserve a say in the matter."

"I'm kind of in the middle of something, yeah. I'm at the racetrack watching our other guest competing in his heat, and listening in on yet another fantasy here in the announcers' tower. When it's over, I'll ask Father if he minds if I leave. Will that work?"

"The racetrack? I don't think we even mentioned your other guests at lunch, we were so caught up in Douglas Grunewald's request. Sounds interesting. All right, why don't you ask him right now and let me know."

Leslie took the phone from her ear and returned Roarke's gaze. "Christian's at the bungalow where Carl Johan and Amalia and Kristina are staying. He says he's just spoken with the family about Mr. Grunewald's book idea, and their reactions are mixed. He said since I'm an Enstad too, I should be in on it. Do you think I can go over there after this heat ends and talk with them?"

Roarke nodded. "Very well. It isn't really necessary for you to be here, so when this first qualifying race has ended, you may go. Apparently the family has discussed this at some length, if they're beginning to make decisions on it."

"Seems so," Leslie said, "but so far there's no agreement, and they'll all have to be in favor of the thing before we can give Mr. Grunewald his fantasy."

"Not necessarily," Roarke said, in that mysterious tone of his that still had the habit of mildly frustrating her. "But by all means, go. Perhaps you can provide some insight, with your individual point of view."

She nodded and got back on the phone. "Okay, my love, I'll be on my way once this race ends. It's not far from the finish line anyway, so give me about half an hour or so."

"Good enough. Thank you, my Rose, see you soon." They both hung up, and Leslie let her eyes stray back to the track, where there were two more laps to go before the heat was over. She found car number 94 third from the front, struggling to gain on the two leaders. "He's running out of time if he wants first spot."

Roarke was quiet for a moment, observing the race below them, then smiled a little. "Pole position does not necessarily determine the winner of the race, Leslie. Keep that in mind. And while you're with the family, perhaps you'd extend an invitation to watch the race tomorrow, for those who are interested."

"I'll do that," she agreed, just as number 94 edged past the second-place car. "Hey, he's looking pretty respectable out there. He's run a good race. Why on earth is Glory McConnell so obsessed with the win? It's not as if Mr. Farquharson's always come in last or something like that."

Roarke spoke without taking his eyes off the track. "For some people, unfortunately, anything other than first place is no place at all."

Johnny Farquharson maintained his second-place position through the end of the heat; Roarke and Leslie went down to congratulate him, but they both noticed Glory McConnell standing a few feet away, a scowl on her pretty face and her lower lip sticking out, very much like a small child denied a candy bar. Leslie found herself feeling sorry for Johnny, facing what was sure to be a round scolding from his girlfriend.

Johnny seemed pretty confident, apparently realizing that his performance here was essentially a rehearsal for the race itself. "It's just the heat," he said. "C'mon, second place is damn good no matter what!"

"I wanted pole position for you," Glory sulked.

"Patience, Miss McConnell," Roarke counseled gently. "All in due time. You drove a very good race, Mr. Farquharson—congratulations on your second-position placement. If you'd like to take time to have refreshments, there are concession stands near the bleachers."

"Tell the truth, I _am_ pretty hungry," Johnny said cheerfully. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke and Mrs. Enstad. Well, Glory, let's go, I'll get you a sandwich."

"I don't _want_ a sandwich," Glory snapped as they struck off across the track toward the bleachers. "You know what I want, Johnny…" Her voice blended into the general noise as they walked away.

Leslie shook her head. "She seems to be impossible to please. I don't envy him, having her on his back like that all the time."

"She believes she is encouraging him," Roarke noted in a neutral tone, extracting his gold pocket watch and checking the time before snapping it shut and replacing it. "I'll keep you apprised of further events. Why don't you go and join Christian and his family."

They had arrived in one of the red SUVs that Roarke had bought earlier in the year and had modified to run almost entirely on electricity and solar energy. It needed gasoline only for cross-island trips, and came in handy for transporting guests and their luggage to the hotel or bungalows. Leslie climbed behind the wheel and turned east on the Ring Road, letting her thoughts settle on the subject of Douglas Grunewald's planned book and what the Enstad family thought of the whole idea. By the time she reached the bungalow, she was in something of a quandary and wanted at that moment only to talk to Christian alone.

She was relieved for some reason when Christian answered her knock. He smiled at her, turned and said something quickly to those inside, then stepped out on the little porch and pulled the door shut behind him. "I'm glad you're here."

"Don't tell me," she said, suddenly nervous again. "You've had enough time to discuss this thing that now it's started creating a big gulf in the family."

Christian chuckled, sounding just a little weary. "Not quite, but I have a sense it might be heading in that direction. Tell me something, my Leslie Rose, how do you feel? I'm sure you've had a chance to do plenty of your own thinking by now."

She nodded. "Yeah, but I haven't made a decision one way or the other." She peered at him in confusion. "Why does my opinion matter? You and I didn't know each other when all this happened. I was just a teenager at the time. It seems kind of absurd to have me in on this thing when I wasn't even there."

"No, you weren't, but you're in a unique position among all of us in this family. You've already spoken with Grunewald, and you work with your father, who's giving the man his fantasy to have access to us for his book. And, due to that earlier meeting with Grunewald, you now stand as the only one of us who's met him and has any idea what he's like. I think if you come in and talk to us, and tell us your impressions of him, it may help Anna-Laura to make a decision, and it might change Kristina's and Amalia's minds."

Leslie considered that while he watched her; she felt a little better when he pulled her into a loose embrace, and looked up at him. "Well, that's a good point, I guess. Not that I can be that much help. I've talked to him only the once, and not for very long." For some reason she abruptly remembered something. "His wife is dead against this whole thing. She thinks it's a gross invasion of the family's privacy."

Christian laughed. "Does she? It would be interesting to speak with her as well. But for right now, come on in, and let's put your ideas into the mix. It can't make this any more muddled than it already is, and maybe it will help clear up some things." He tightened his hold on her and kissed her. "Don't worry about reprisals, no one's going to bite."

His grin and wink made her laugh, albeit a touch reluctantly. "Well, okay. But I'll hold you to that." Chuckling together, they entered the bungalow, and Christian made some room for her in the chair where he'd earlier been sitting. She squeezed in beside him, returning greetings and smiling at her in-laws.

"Christian says you've talked to this Douglas Grunewald," Carl Johan said. "What is your impression of him? Do you think we can trust him to do as he says he will?"

Leslie shifted uncomfortably and felt Christian slip an arm over her shoulders. "I'm not sure I can really say with any authority," she admitted, braving quick glances at the others. "I wasn't with him very long, and I was already scared to death about approaching Christian with the whole idea in the first place." This earned her a collective laugh from the rest of the family, and she found herself relaxing, to her surprise. "Anyway, I guess I could say that he's very…enthusiastic. He really wants to do this project, and I got the sense he intends to do right by you."

"By necessity he must be unbiased," Anna-Laura pointed out. "That means he has to tell the Vikslunds' side of the story with the same objectivity and thoroughness he tells ours. He has to refrain from showing favor to one side or the other."

Leslie nodded. "Did Christian tell you he's won a Pulitzer? As I said to Father, they don't just hand those out to any old hack writer. He must do good work if he earned one of those. I'm sure, if you need more information, Mr. Grunewald would be more than happy to provide samples of his earlier work and answer any questions you have. He and his wife are here for the weekend, but I'm sure if necessary, they can extend their stay, depending on what everyone decides to do. I can have him over here in no time at all and you can give him the third degree, or whatever you want."

The family members looked at one another, and Rudolf shifted restlessly in his seat and snorted loudly enough to turn all heads his way. _"Herregud,"_ he complained, "I see no reason to delay. I say we have him over here and we can ask those questions. He's the one who wants to write the book, not Aunt Leslie, so why are we grilling her?"

The others murmured agreement, though Leslie saw Amalia and Kristina exchange doubtful looks. Anna-Laura looked none too sanguine herself, but she raised no objection to having Douglas Grunewald come to the bungalow. Christian took in the consensus and smiled at his wife. "You might as well go and get him now while everyone's still in a mood to accommodate the man, in whatever small way."

Leslie excused herself and got up to go; Christian arose after a few seconds' hesitation and followed her. "I thought you were going to wait with the others," she said, surprised.

"No, I thought I'd like to meet the man myself, before the rest of the family gets their hooks into him," he said with a grin. "Not to mention finding out for myself what his wife has to say, if she's that much against this. If you ask me, she should come too."

"Maybe so," Leslie said, heading for the Grunewalds' bungalow some paces down the lane from the one the royals were occupying. Christian fell into step beside her; they went silently till Leslie knocked on the door and was greeted by Karen Grunewald. The woman's eyes widened at sight of Christian, and before either he or Leslie could say anything, she dipped an awkward curtsy.

"Your Highness, it's nice to meet you," she blurted.

Christian grinned resignedly. "It's good to meet you too—Mrs. Grunewald, is it? I hope you and your husband aren't doing anything at the moment. My family and I would like very much to speak with him. With both of you, if you'd like to come with him."

"Both of us?" Karen blinked, looked a little panicky for just a moment, then managed to gather herself and gave a nod better described as a shudder. "Sure…of course, I'll get Doug and we'll be right with you, if you'd like to wait here, inside."

"We won't impose, Mrs. Grunewald," Leslie said, hoping she sounded soothing. "We don't mind waiting right out here."

Karen looked dubious, but Christian nodded, so she smiled weakly and closed the door. Christian peered at Leslie. "Why in the world is she so terrified? I mean, I'm used to seeing people become nervous around me as royalty, no matter how much it bothers me. But I think there's something else on her mind."

"I don't know," Leslie said helplessly. "I can't read her at all. I'm not really all that great at that kind of thing anyway. But she made it plain that she doesn't like her husband's intentions, and I have to wonder how she'll handle being on display in front of the family."

Christian eyed the door, as if he could see Karen Grunewald through it. "Well, all I know is that there's more to it than just being jittery around a royal. I'm beginning to wonder how clear she's made her opinion to her husband."

Leslie shrugged. "I think he knows, but I don't know if he's aware of how adamant she is—" She snapped her mouth shut as the door opened on her last word, and quickly smiled at the Grunewalds. Karen looked as though she were on her way to a firing squad; Doug's face was radiant with anticipation.

He reached out immediately upon stepping out the door and shook hands with Christian. "I just can't overstate how grateful I am to you and your family for agreeing to talk to me, Your Highness. I'll answer any and all questions you have."

Christian smiled, but Leslie could see a certain amount of reserve in his eyes. "You're quite welcome, Mr. Grunewald. My brother and two sisters-in-law are staying in a bungalow just down the lane, so we can merely walk from here." Doug nodded, and the two couples stepped off the porch and headed back along the narrow dirt lane, with the Grunewalds behind the Enstads. Nobody said anything, not even Doug.

A few minutes later Christian was ushering the Grunewalds in ahead of himself and Leslie, then pulling the door closed behind his wife and stepping forward to announce, "Here are Douglas and Karen Grunewald. You may already know my family, but let me introduce them anyway—my sister-in-law Kristina, my brother Carl Johan, my sister-in-law Amalia, my nephew Rudolf, my sister Anna-Laura and my brother-in-law Esbjörn."

"It's a real pleasure to meet all of you," Doug said cheerfully, while Karen performed another awkward curtsy, this one visibly shaky. He got a round of nods, except from Kristina who regarded him with an icy, suspicious stare, and hefted up the briefcase he had brought along with him. "I have everything you might be interested in right here."

"We might be interested in…?" Anna-Laura repeated. "Such as?"

"Anna-Laura," Christian admonished in _jordiska_, "don't be rude; we don't want to be known for being off-putting, even if the final decision goes against his wishes." He switched back to English. "Mr. and Mrs. Grunewald, why don't you come in and sit down." He spoke low to Carl Johan and Amalia, who made room for Christian and Leslie on the sofa so that the Grunewalds could sit together.

"Ask me anything you'd like," Doug invited eagerly. "Anything at all."

_He's really asking for it,_ Leslie thought, but felt less worried about Grunewald's chances for some reason now that the family was aware of his hopes and she had Christian at her side. She sneaked a glance at her husband as the thought slid through her mind and was amused to see his features carefully blank and focused on Grunewald. She imagined he was thinking up some questions for the journalist, and looked forward to hearing them.

It took a little while, during which Doug was kept busy pulling out clippings of past newspaper and magazine articles and explaining what they were about and how he had gone about writing them. He passed a couple of them around for the others to peruse; one was the article that had won him the Pulitzer Prize, and Leslie could see subtle reactions in the various family members as they looked it over and were, mostly unwillingly, impressed. Even Christian was affected when his turn came; both brows went skyward and a tiny smile creased his face. After a moment he whispered to her, "This is excellent, my Rose. If anyone is going to write this book, I think this may be the man to do it."

She gave him a knowing look in response. "You still haven't asked him anything, and I seem to remember you implied he was going to have to pass really tough muster with you."

Christian grinned. "Just watch me." He passed the clipping on to Rudolf and waited for a break in the conversation; then he cleared his throat to get attention. "Mr. Grunewald, have you written any books before, or is this to be your first one? And if it's the latter, tell me, are you planning to stick to the facts, or put your own slant on them, as a number of celebrity biographers have done?"

Doug cleared his throat and admitted, "This is my first attempt at a book. But I didn't want to do something frivolous, and I wanted to be sure I built up enough credibility to be able to pull this off. As you'll know if you've really read any of my work, Your Highness, I strive to stick to the facts and only the facts. If I draw conclusions, they're taken solely from the factual information I've gathered. I've been doing this my entire career, and I'll go so far as to say that I think I have enough credentials and have built up enough honesty and trustworthiness that I really believe it would be a shame if you turned to somebody else to write this, or decided not to allow it to be done at all."

Christian regarded him. "You think quite highly of yourself, it seems. Are you willing to back up that rather bold statement?"

Grunewald looked a bit wary, but he nodded all the same. "Yes, I am, Your Highness."

"Good. Then I want a copy of every magazine article you've written, and every major newspaper article you've turned out, from the beginning of your career. I have ways of finding out whether events happened as reported, or if the facts are different from statements made by people calling themselves reputable journalists." Christian leaned forward and speared the startled Grunewald with a piercing stare. "Regardless of my own views on the advisability of this project, I won't let it go forward without being absolutely certain I can trust the person who proposes to write it. I won't tolerate slander, innuendo, sly implications or anything of the sort. We get far more than enough of that in the world's gossip rags. What I want—what we all want—is straightforward, factual reporting. When you make a statement, you'd better be able to prove every word of it. If we catch you in a lie or even a misstatement, you'll sorely regret it."

Dead silence fell in the room; Karen Grunewald's mouth hung open, and Carl Johan and Rudolf eyed each other with knowing looks and slight, wry smiles. Kristina looked a bit confused; since Christian had spoken in English, she had missed the better part of what he'd said. Anna-Laura leaned over and quietly translated Christian's words into _jordiska_, while Amalia dropped her gaze to her lap and Esbjörn stared in amazement at Christian. Leslie saw him and smiled; apparently he had lost familiarity with the way Christian tended to handle the media.

"Well," said Esbjörn, so surprised he spoke in _jordiska_. "I daresay that should put the man in his place, don't you think, Christian?"

Christian blinked once, shot him a look and then grinned briefly. "You should know I have my reasons, or did you forget?" Esbjörn's slightly sheepish smile gave him his answer, and he chuckled softly before returning his attention to Grunewald.

The break had given the journalist enough time to regroup and put together a reply. "Your Highness, I have to warn you, I've been a journalist for twenty-six years, and for the last twenty of those years I've been with the _Post._ That's a long time, and a hell of a lot of articles. Even I haven't kept copies of every single thing I ever wrote."

"I wasn't expecting literally every word you've ever published," Christian riposted smoothly. "I merely want the more significant items—magazine articles, as I said, and any major newspaper reporting. If it helps, I'll narrow it down to anything that deals with someone in the limelight, for whatever reason—politics, show business, sports, I don't care. I just want copies of all of those. I don't expect to be overwhelmed with reading material. I want the in-depth things, and I want them to be about people I've probably heard of in some capacity. Is that fair enough for you?"

At that Grunewald had to give in. "Yeah, that's fair, I guess. I have some things in my briefcase right here. I took care to keep copies of the magazines I've been published in, and if you give me a day or two, I can have copies of the major newspaper articles expressed here for you. I don't have all the magazines with me at the moment—"

"Then get them," Christian said. "If I sound blunt to you, I apologize, but I'm sure you realize this is a very sensitive issue with us. We certainly aren't going to trust some neophyte with visions of treasure chests dancing in his eyes, thinking he'll reap enormous rewards for providing all the inside information on a very juicy and timely scandal. If we let anyone do this, then he has to be reliable and well-informed, and determined to tell the story properly—not as a…a vehicle for titillation."

Grunewald sat up, his eyes sparking. Stiffly he said, "Your Highness, I hope you'll pardon me if I take offense at the idea. I'll get you what you want, but I'm sure you'll see that I can be trusted."

Christian raised an eyebrow. "It's my experience that when I suggest someone wants to write something about us merely for titillation, they'll deny it and act offended by the suggestion—and then write it that way anyway."

Grunewald opened his mouth, but his frightened wife intervened. "Doug, don't push it!" she urged, flicking scared glances at Christian without quite letting her eyes actually rest on him. "Let it be enough that they're even considering this stupid idea of yours!"

Her words got the attention of the rest of the Enstads, and they all looked at Leslie. "You didn't say anything about Mrs. Grunewald," Kristina accused her, using _jordiska_ as was her habit.

"She told me," Christian put in before Leslie could answer, also speaking _jordiska_. "I could have said something, but it didn't seem relevant." He returned to English to address Karen. "I understand you're against your husband's project, Mrs. Grunewald."

Karen's face grew crimson with mortification. "Pretty much from the beginning. He's been writing the usual articles on it for the paper, for regular reporting purposes, you know, but now that he's had that story from the time it first broke, he's become obsessed with it. At least, I see it as an obsession. He's been determined to get through to one side or the other, and he keeps saying it doesn't matter who he gets to first, he'll tell both sides with the same lack of bias. He kept saying all he needed was to get through to one side, and the other would cave in to assure balanced storytelling."

Christian's eyebrow, along with several others, went up again. "Hm," he commented. "But what do you think of it, you personally?"

"I just think it's a gross invasion of privacy," Karen said, fidgeting madly. "It seems to me the media have covered the whole thing long enough, and in enough depth, to satisfy the curious ones. Why Doug thinks he has to write a book about it is beyond me. I hear that the kings' names are pretty much mud in your country already, as it is. There's no reason to make it any worse."

"Thank you," Amalia suddenly said, with emphasis. Kristina, for whom Anna-Laura had continued to translate, nodded vigorously. "That's our view on this."

Carl Johan sighed gently. "I think we'll have to discuss this later," he said to her, low-voiced and in their own tongue.

"Oh, we will," Amalia retorted, with a slight threat in her own voice.

Karen moaned loudly enough to stop their argument, but her attention was on Doug. "Do you see what you're doing? You're driving wedges between these people! Why don't you just give it up before you permanently ruin their family?" Without another word, she leaped from her chair and fled the bungalow. Leslie watched her go, feeling sorry for her; even without being able to understand what Carl Johan and Amalia were saying, it had been clear to Karen that Doug's proposed project was already causing disagreements.

The Enstad family was left sitting in silent astonishment, glancing uneasily at one another. Then Grunewald cleared his throat. "I think my wife's a little hysterical," he said, essaying a bright smile that didn't quite reach believability. "I don't want to start any family feuds, though, so I'll leave the decision up to you, Your Highnesses. And Prince Christian, I'll get the material you wanted right away. I'll call around and see to it." He got up, then hesitated as if he thought they expected him to make some sort of gesture. Finally he offered a weak military salute before excusing himself and hurrying out after his wife.

Rudolf was the first to arise. "Well, I think I'd better let Louisa know what's been happening," he said. "Aunt Leslie, can you and Uncle Christian drop me off at the bed-and-breakfast inn?"

"Sure," Leslie agreed, though she waited for Christian to stand before she got up as well. "Esbjörn, Anna-Laura, are you ready?"

"I suppose we are," Anna-Laura said, arising along with her husband. Esbjörn pushed his hands into his pockets, cast Carl Johan a sympathetic glance and joined Christian, Leslie and Rudolf at the door.

"You'll have two of them to convince," Esbjörn told Carl Johan. "I don't envy you."

Carl Johan smiled sardonically. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who'll be arguing his point of view this night," he remarked. "Good luck to all of you. Rudolf, you may find yourself the lucky one in this mess."

"I just might," Rudolf agreed, a sympathetic grin on his face. "Hmm, _far_, maybe you'd like me to work on Aunt Kristina for you, since you have _mor_ to talk around?" He blithely ignored the disgusted scowl Kristina favored him with.

"To 'talk around'," Amalia snapped, "as if I were in the wrong for holding the opinion I do. I daresay we have an ally, with Mrs. Grunewald on our side. You'd better hope to be the most persuasive you've ever been in our entire marriage, Carl Johan Lukas Erik Enstad." She swept away to one of the two bedrooms with a ruffled dignity about her.

Christian stared, then winced at the stunned expression on his brother's face. _"Må sanktarna hålla plass till dej, äldrebror,"_ he offered softly. It was a slight variation on a _jordisk_ aphorism that meant, "May the saints hold a place for me."

"For me?" Carl Johan said, blowing out a weary sigh. "I'll deserve it after this, I think. Anyway, we'll talk later, Christian, and thank you."


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § - October 13, 2006

Christian had no idea that he himself would be begging for a place from those same proverbial saints much later that day. With the triplets in bed and Esbjörn and Anna-Laura having retired to the downstairs guest suite, he and Leslie had retreated to their own bedroom to prepare to settle down for the night. Roarke had suggested Leslie defer to their houseguests while they were on the island and go home with Christian, even on the weekends while she was working.

"I've never really seen Carl Johan and Amalia have such a difference of opinion," he was saying as he changed into his usual pajama bottoms. He aimed his shirt at the laundry basket in the corner and smiled a bit when it sailed neatly inside. "Whatever arguing they did, they did in private where no one could see. And they must have always resolved it before, because they'd always be in perfect harmony by the next morning."

Leslie smiled and suggested gently, "Maybe that's _too_ perfect. Sooner or later something was bound to come along that would really split them."

"I just hope they can work it out," Christian muttered, tossing his pants into the basket. "I don't like this at all. It just isn't like them."

"Well, it sounds to me like they've had enough years of practice talking things out that they stand a good chance of getting through this one," Leslie said, trying to cheer him up. It always bothered her when he was upset. "Come on, my love, smile."

But Christian's face was serious when he turned to her, pajama pants in hand. "Leslie, my Rose, there's one thing we never cleared up when you were with us. You never told us how you feel about what Grunewald wants to do."

"Oh." Leslie stilled, feeling a hot-and-cold sensation run through her from head to toe. She regarded Christian a little uneasily, then drew in a deep breath and confessed, "I really don't know. I mean…I can see both sides of the issue."

"Both sides?" echoed Christian, stepping into the pajama pants. "What do you mean, that you agree with both my side and Amalia's and Kristina's side?"

"Uh-huh." Leslie settled into bed, watching him. "I can see that you'd want the story told, but I can also understand that Amalia and Kristina are tired of all the publicity."

"So you're like my sister, then," he said, staring at her as he slowly approached the bed. "You're sitting on the fence about it."

She shrugged uneasily. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

He slid into bed beside her, but his expression was incredulous. "Why? I was certain you'd see the merits in telling this tale. It needs to be told, and to be clarified, because it's all so muddy right now. Even now, I've seen evidence in the press that the rest of the family is still somewhat under suspicion of having been involved in the whole stupid plot, or at least of having known the truth of it. I want it made plain that that isn't so."

"I know you do. It's just that…well, for one thing, look at Kristina. She was married to one of the kings in question, and no matter what his shortcomings may have been, she loved the man, after all. It's fairly obvious that she still does, and she wants to preserve what she can of his memory that doesn't denigrate him. I have the feeling that she fears this book will paint Arnulf in such an uncomplimentary light that it could destroy people's memories of the good things he did during his reign."

"I wasn't aware he had done any good things during his reign," Christian commented bitterly. "If the book exposes Arnulf and my father for the greedy, narrow-minded, power-hungry despots they really were…"

"My gosh, Christian," Leslie said, astonished. "If they were that bad, don't you think there would have been some sort of backlash? And especially in this day and age, royalty doesn't have the godlike status it did even a century or so ago. Nobody would put up with that kind of thing anymore, at least not in Europe. Turmoil like that happens only in the African and Middle Eastern and southeast Asian countries these days, it seems."

"Leslie, just because it's reported on more often in those countries, that doesn't mean it's restricted entirely to them. You honestly can't be that naïve that you think greedy, self-serving politicians in any country don't still ignore what's right to do what will benefit them! Besides, you weren't there when my father and Arnulf were alive. You didn't see what Father did to me as I was growing up, and you didn't have the full story on what Arnulf did to me while he was on the throne. You never met him except the day before he died, and by then he knew he was dying and wanted to absolve his conscience—so you saw a softer version of my brother. You _just don't know."_

"Oh, bull," Leslie shot back impatiently, startling him. "Come on, Christian, do you think I forgot how he deliberately kept us apart for four years? There's just one thing you don't quite understand. Your father and Arnulf did what they did because they felt it was necessary. They had to have amakarna and that was the only way they could get the stuff."

"They didn't need to sell me off to a child for it!" Christian all but shouted, and she recoiled. "Damn it, Leslie, they could have found some other way than bartering me into a marriage I would never have agreed to—and let's not forget, they did it behind my back! They knew damned well I would have never agreed, so they took advantage of my having been out of the country and signed my life away! Now you tell me how I can possibly overlook that little transgression!"

"But they had no other choice!" Leslie protested. "You seem to have forgotten that Count LiSciola backed your father into a corner! He wanted a royal husband for Marina, and he was willing to be underhanded to get one—"

"There was no reason it had to be me, in case _you've_ forgotten. Rudolf was just the right age and probably wouldn't have given a damn who he ended up marrying. It would have made far more sense to arrange things that way, if he really had to do it at all—but no, my father decided he had to correct an imaginary defect in me, therefore insisted that I be the sacrificial lamb."

"And you've just never gotten over it, have you?" Leslie threw back at him, and was sorry the instant the words left her mouth. She slapped a hand over it, eyes huge with shock at her own utterance. Christian's hazel eyes iced over and his expression shut down; he eyed her long enough to terrify her before turning away from her and sliding along the mattress to lie down.

"I think it's time we got to sleep," he said coldly, and with that shut off the lamp on his side of the bed.

"Christian, I'm sorry," Leslie said desperately, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He flinched away, and she yanked her hand back. "Christian, please!"

"Go to sleep," was all he said, in a curt, clipped tone. Her eyes filled with the tears she had been trying to hold back, and she stared helplessly at him before slowly lying down, her back to him. She reached up and snapped off the lamp, then lay there in despair with silent tears soaking her pillow.

§ § § - October 14, 2006

Leslie couldn't face anyone the next morning; she got out of bed before the sun had even begun staining the eastern sky, and gathered her clothes together to dress in the bathroom before stealing downstairs and leaving the house as quietly as she could. She was afraid the sound of the car engine starting up would waken Christian, but no one came out the door, and she got away without incident.

Of course, Roarke was up, and very surprised to see her come in so early. "What brings you here at such an hour? Are you so eager to begin your workday?"

She threw him such an anguished look that he arose and immediately pulled her into his embrace. "Tell me what happened, child," he said softly.

She hadn't realized how badly she needed to talk about the whole thing, and poured out the entire story without further ado. Before she was half finished she was crying, and by the time she got to the point of no return in her argument with Christian, she could barely speak. "I t-tried to take it back," she gasped, "but he-he—" The rest of her words were forever lost in a spasm of sobbing.

Roarke held her close and slowly rubbed her back in circles, saying nothing, letting her get it out of her system. When the worst of the storm had passed, he prompted gently, "So you are saying that Christian refused to accept your apology?"

"Yeeeeeessss," she wailed and broke down again. "I w-went too far, Father…he's n-never going to forgive meeeeeee!"

This time he tried to soothe her. "Leslie, Leslie, calm yourself, now," he urged quietly. "It's not as bad as you think; it never is. You're merely caught in the heat of the moment, and the day has barely begun. Give him a chance to think about it."

"It won't matter," Leslie cried, staring at him with streaming eyes. "Don't you see? It's the one thing he could never find it in his heart to really forgive his father and Arnulf for. I know he told Arnulf he forgave him, before Arnulf died, but I think he said it just to satisfy me because I was in-insisting that…" She tried to gulp back a fresh spate of tears and nearly choked; Roarke shushed her again. Pulling in a deep breath, she forced herself on: "I thought he'd feel better after he forgave Arnulf. But I don't think it worked."

Roarke guided her over to the loveseat near the stairs and sat down beside her. "It's unfortunate, my child, but the fact is that you cannot force one person to forgive another. You must try to see Christian's side of it. While it would have been commendable for him to truly forgive his brother, it's understandable if he found himself unable to do so. He simply could not overlook years of persecution at his brother's and father's hands. It's extremely difficult for anyone to do that, and to forgive a lifetime of transgressions, large and small, takes a very, very big man. I am afraid this is one obstacle that, if Christian does manage to overcome it, will take him many years—perhaps a lifetime."

"A lifetime," Leslie repeated dully. "And he'll spend that whole lifetime resenting me for what I said. For not understanding how he feels."

"But you do understand how he feels," Roarke pointed out, smiling gently. "You just now explained it to me."

Leslie shook her head in a hopeless gesture. "That's not how Christian'll see it. He'll never forgive me, I know it. This is too close to home for him, and I'm sure he figured I always understood his point of view, through the whole ten years we've known each other now. I resented Arnulf as much as Christian did for that whole time. And now here I've been arguing Arnulf's point of view, and that's just too much for Christian to take." She gazed at Roarke with the hope leached out of her eyes. "He won't forgive me for this."

"Why don't you wait and see before you adhere to that conclusion," Roarke suggested quietly. "You've had a sleepless night and you're much too fresh from the fight just now. Leslie, Christian may never truly be able to forgive his father and brother for all the miseries they committed him to, through his lifetime till they died; but you are not his father or his brother. And Christian is a sensible and very intelligent man. Give him the chance to think about things, as I said earlier, and he'll eventually come to the same realization." He smiled at her and patted her shoulder. "Now, do you feel up to some breakfast?"

Before she could reply, there was a knock on the door, and they looked around in time to see it open. It was Karen Grunewald. "Mr. Roarke, could I talk to you?"

"Of course, Mrs. Grunewald, please come in," Roarke invited, and Karen quietly closed the door and joined them, sitting in a chair facing them. "What can we do for you?"

The woman sighed deeply and fidgeted for a moment or two before looking up. "I was talking to Doug," she began, then cut herself off when she noticed Leslie's red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. "Oh my God, are you all right?"

"Don't worry about it," Leslie said, trying to sound dismissive, even though her voice was still a bit thick from her bout of misery. "Go ahead."

Karen looked doubtful, but acceded. "Well, I guess I should really say I argued with Doug yesterday afternoon before supper. And I mean, what an argument. It was a real knock-down-drag-out. He's really got his heart set on this book, Mr. Roarke, but I just don't like it. Not one bit. I keep telling him it's going to rip the royal family right apart, and we saw the first signs of it yesterday at the bungalow where some of them are staying. I couldn't stick around anymore to watch him keep driving wedges in between them, and I ran out." She cleared her throat and leaned forward. "Mr. Roarke, I'm asking you to cancel Doug's fantasy. It's going to cause too much heartache and bitterness."

"You fought with your husband over this?" Leslie asked, startled.

Karen nodded, focusing on her. "I noticed Prince Christian seems to be all for this whole thing—I know he sort of raked Doug over the coals, but it sounded to me as if he was ready to give the thing a green light. It's hard to believe. He has a real reputation for hating reporters and refusing to give interviews, but this thing seems to have really caught fire with him. I just don't understand it."

"Oh, he has his reasons," Leslie muttered, making a face.

Karen gasped, making her look up again. "Don't tell me—you two fought about it too." At Leslie's reluctant nod, she appealed to Roarke again. "You see, Mr. Roarke, it's happening exactly the way I said it would! Please, please, cancel this fantasy, _please!"_

Roarke regarded her in silence for a moment or two, then said gently, "Mrs. Grunewald, do you really think it's fair to your husband to base your feelings about his fantasy on your own experiences?"

Karen recoiled violently, her eyes enormous with shock. "What…what do you mean?"

"I mean the difficulties your own family went through," Roarke said, his voice almost soothing in a strange way. "Oh yes, I'm well aware of the scandal. Thirty-three years ago, your own father, a senatorial aide, was implicated in a scheme involving graft and kickbacks, one that eventually terminated the careers of three senators and a Congressman. And even though your father was ultimately proven to be innocent, the shock was too much for your family, and your parents underwent a bitter divorce."

"How do you know that?" Karen squeaked, her voice high and thin, but filled with outrage. "Mr. Roarke, what're you trying to do, make me relive that nightmare all over again? You just don't understand—not you, not Doug, not anyone who hasn't lived through it!" As she ranted, her voice gained strength. "It was horrible—kids in school teased me and my brothers and my sister. They harangued us till we were so beaten down that my sister was actually talking about committing suicide. My mother stopped leaving the house because of all the talking that was going on. My father could barely hold up his head in public, even though we all knew he was innocent. Nobody would believe us. Even after it was proven that Dad had nothing to do with it, we got harassed. We were getting ready to move back to Ohio when some gung-ho reporter came along asking Dad to sit with him for extensive interviews for an exposé book he wanted to write on the subject. We talked it over for about two weeks, and then Dad finally agreed in the hope that his name and reputation would be cleared once and for all."

"Weren't they?" Leslie asked.

"Oh, sure," Karen said bitterly. "The book itself wasn't the problem. It told the facts and explicitly showed that Dad was just an innocent bystander. But it didn't matter. Too much damage had been done. We moved back home. Dad managed to get a job in a law firm as a legal secretary, but Mom had to go back to work and we became latchkey kids. It took months for the persecution in our new school to die down."

"So," Roarke said, "now that your husband wishes to write a similar book on an equally large scandal, you are convinced that the royal family will suffer all the same slings and arrows that tore yours apart."

"Of course," Karen snapped. "I said you don't understand. Nobody could if they'd never been through it." She turned to Leslie. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Enstad. I knew something like this would happen, and I tried to warn Doug about it, but he just wouldn't listen to me. I'm so, so sorry." She shook her head and arose to leave.

"Mrs. Grunewald," Roarke spoke up, "Christian and Leslie's argument was not about your husband's book, specifically."

Karen stopped and eyed him, eyes glittering with skepticism. "Oh no?"

"No," Leslie said softly. "It wasn't the project _per se_, it was something that goes back a lot farther than that. I won't bother you with the details, but you should know that it's not the book. I can't speak for my in-laws, but keep that in mind, please."

"The royal family is, and always has been, accustomed to a great deal of public exposure," Roarke put in. "They have always known that it's part and parcel of their lives and that there is nothing they can do about it. They will be able to deal with whatever fallout may come their way far better than your family could. And it may interest you to know that, at least among those family members who are aware of your husband's wishes, most of them would very much like to see the book written and published."

Karen didn't look convinced. "I guess we'll just see about that."

Roarke smiled a little. "Mrs. Grunewald, I sympathize greatly, you must know that. It's never easy for anyone to go through such trials. However, this is not the same. I have a feeling your husband would deeply appreciate your support."

"I'll think about it," Karen conceded grudgingly. "Anyway, thanks for hearing me out, both of you." They watched her departure, and when the door had closed behind her, Leslie slumped against the back of her seat and blew out a breath.

"Father, what do you think I should do about Christian?" she asked plaintively. "I already tried to apologize…"

"I know you did, child," Roarke comforted her. "And he knows it as well, so I suggest you leave the next move up to him. Now, how about breakfast?"

At the Enstad house, Christian was at that moment sitting over a cup of coffee, trying without success to concentrate on the morning paper; Ingrid was too busy preparing breakfast and dealing with the hungry triplets to notice the tension in the room, so she didn't see the prince studiously ignoring Anna-Laura and Esbjörn when they entered the kitchen and took seats at the table. Esbjörn laughed softly, watching Ingrid deftly serving the triplets and supervising their progress. "Do you ever feel as if it's feeding time at the zoo?" he queried, using _jordiska_, since everyone currently in the house knew the language.

Anna-Laura glanced at her nieces and nephew and grinned. "I'm sure this is normal in this house. Ingrid, if Christian and Leslie have any fresh peaches, I'd like those with a little hot cereal on the side."

"I'll have coffee, toast and a breakfast sandwich," Esbjörn decided as Ingrid nodded and began bustling around the kitchen again. "Christian, aren't you eating?"

"Where's Leslie?" Anna-Laura asked, noticing for the first time the absence of her sister-in-law.

"She's already gone to work," was Christian's chilly reply. He never took his gaze off the newspaper, but his tone of voice made Anna-Laura squint closely at him.

"Something's wrong," she said, her smile fading in tandem with Esbjörn's. "What happened, Christian?"

For the first time he met her gaze, and she blinked at what she saw there. "I'd prefer not to discuss it, thank you," he said icily.

Anna-Laura took note of the servant, busy though she was, and three small pairs of wide-open ears, and decided to let him have his way for the moment. "We'll get back to this," she promised him and smiled thanks at Ingrid when the young woman placed a bowl of cereal and two peaches in front of her. "Is there coffee?"

"I have fresh coffee brewing right now, Your Highness," Ingrid said, smiling back.

"That should hit the spot," said Esbjörn, his voice artificially hearty. "Anything good in the paper this morning, Christian?"

Christian let out a snort at that and threw the paper onto the table. "Nothing to speak of. You might as well have it." He picked up his coffee mug and seemed to be trying to hide behind it as he drank; then he made a gargoyle face and set the mug back down with a clank. _"Herregud,_ that's vile. Ingrid, where's the fresh coffee?"

"It'll be ready in just a moment, Your Highness," Ingrid promised, looking a little startled at Christian's vehemence.

Esbjörn blinked at him. "How long have you been sitting in here, anyway?"

"Long enough for the damned coffee to get cold," Christian muttered. By now even Ingrid could see there was a storm brewing around the prince, and got nervous enough to nearly drop Esbjörn's plate and mug as she set them in front of him. Esbjörn quietly thanked her and began to eat, eyeing Christian doubtfully now and then.

The triplets picked up on the cooling atmosphere in the room and began to fuss a bit, clamoring to be let out of the high chairs they would probably outgrow in another few months. "Your Highness, the children…" Ingrid began.

Christian barely glanced at them. "Let them go," he ordered brusquely. Ingrid wasted no time doing as told, lifting each child to the floor and letting them all run out of the room. As the servant hesitated, wavering between the kitchen mess and making sure someone had an eye on the children, he waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen doorway and barked, "Well, go watch them. They're too young to be left unsupervised."

Ingrid hastily curtsied, murmured assent and fled. Esbjörn picked up the discarded newspaper and began to peruse the headlines, outwardly calm; Anna-Laura stared at Christian, amazed, disturbed and increasingly annoyed.

"All right, they've gone," she said, her tone making it clear she meant business and would tolerate no dissembling on her brother's part. "Out with it, _ungstebror_. You're worse than the troll the Three Billy Goats Gruff killed at the bridge. What's your problem, and for fate's sake, why won't you talk about it?"

"Don't I have a right to brood if I want to?" Christian demanded, glaring at her.

"Not when it isn't conducive to good digestion," Anna-Laura shot back. "I can barely eat for the glacier in here. Something happened to put you in this mood, and so help me, you won't get away without telling me what it is."

Christian noticed just then that Ingrid had failed to refill his cup and swore loudly and sharply, making Esbjörn stare at him, impressed. "Of all the…" the prince muttered and shoved his chair back so hard it almost fell over, stalking to the counter and dumping out his mug at the sink. He snatched the decanter of fresh brew out of the coffeemaker and began to pour, splashing a small puddle onto the counter, where some dripped off and landed on his bare foot. He cursed again and banged the decanter onto the counter before grabbing a sponge and wiping up the mess.

Anna-Laura got up and seized his arm, yanking him around with strength that made Esbjörn's eyes widen before he hurriedly hid his pent-up laughter behind the newspaper. "Damn you, Christian Carl Tobias, that's enough! You may think you have the right to be in a mood in your own house, but may I remind you, we're guests here, and I think it's time you talked! What the hell is wrong with you, and what happened to Leslie? I'll wager Roald and Adriana's baby it involves her."

Christian gave his arm a hard yank to get it out of her grasp and drilled her with blazing eyes. "Don't you dare manhandle me," he snarled. "You presume a lot, _äldresyster."_

Undaunted, Anna-Laura gave the glare right back to him. "Stop your stalling. Just start talking, and I want to hear it this instant."

He released a wordless growl of mingled wrath and frustration. "You're not Mother!"

"Very observant of you," Anna-Laura commented. "Let's have it."

Christian pivoted on the ball of one foot and slammed his hand down onto the counter with a force that made Anna-Laura wince on his behalf. "I really thought she understood. Leslie, of all people—but no, apparently after all this time…"

"Understood what?" Anna-Laura prodded when he trailed off.

"Will you for fate's sake let me tell this in my own way?" Christian roared at her, rounding on her. Totally unruffled, she shrugged acquiescence. Christian let his head fall back, gulping in a few deep breaths that made only the slightest dent in his quivering fury, before he spoke again. "I asked Leslie last night before bed what her stance is on the book. It turns out she's of the same mind as you, _äldresyster._ She says she can see both sides of the issue." All of a sudden he spat into the sink, making his sister blink and then screw up her face in disgust. "The _hell_ she can. Not when she was arguing Kristina's side of it!"

"You men and your damned spitting," Anna-Laura said in annoyance, washing out the sink with the spray-hose attachment while Christian watched her in disbelief, his anger spiraling even higher somehow. She replaced the hose. "What did she say, then?"

Christian repeated his and Leslie's argument from memory, his voice growing tauter and more clipped with every word, until he sounded as if he were just short of going supernova. "So when I reminded her that they had chosen deliberately to make me the scapegoat, she said the most incredible damned thing—that I've _never gotten over it!"_ As he shouted the word _over_, he slammed a fist onto the counter and then whacked the other hand on the front of the nearby refrigerator, visibly shaking with a towering rage. "Do you believe that? Of all the people on earth to say such a thing, I never expected it to be Leslie!"

"Well, well," Anna-Laura said thoughtfully, eyes wide. "So she does see it."

"See what?" Christian fairly screamed, his face the color of a brick. "I'll tell you what I see, I see my own wife—of all the people in the world, the one person I always believed completely understood my point of view—my own wife betraying me!"

Esbjörn finally got to his feet, planted his hands on his brother-in-law's shoulders and forcibly pushed him back to his chair. "Sit down, Christian, before you give yourself a heart attack. You should only see yourself right now."

Cursing, Christian swatted his hands away, but did at least sit down. "Never mind me, I'm in perfect health! Aren't you the one who thought the book was a good idea?"

"Yes, but not the only one," Esbjörn pointed out. "Try to calm down, Christian, or you'll only become impossible to understand."

"_Understand,"_ Christian sneered. "Nice choice of words there. Damn it, she knew. She was almost as badly affected by Father's and Arnulf's actions as I was, in regard to that damned arranged marriage. She knew it was their fault we had to wait more than four years to get married. She resented Arnulf just as much as I did for enforcing the stupid contract for that stupid spice. She was as angry and upset as I was, and we commiserated over and over again. We were always of the same mind. But now she says this! Didn't you listen to what I told you, Anna-Laura? She was arguing in favor of Arnulf and Father!"

"Oh, Christian, you fool, for fate's sake," Anna-Laura flung out in irritation. "She was doing no such thing! She was simply trying to make you see some sense. You've never been able to give a millimeter where Arnulf and Father are concerned." She squinted at him with a new suspicion blooming in her eyes. "Wait a moment here…I think I understand now why you're so eager to have this book written. You want posthumous revenge on Father and Arnulf, and exposing their parts in that plot would fit the bill perfectly!"

Christian gawked at her. _"What?"_

"That's exactly it!" she said, nodding, gaining steam. "You're convinced this is the way to pay them back for all the years of misery they put you through. Not just to show that they had their hands in this scheme of Vikslund's, but were fully aware of what they were doing and the repercussions it would have, all the way along. You're hoping that Grunewald will dig up more dirt than even the gossip rags have done so far, and that he'll print every single bit of it so that Father and Arnulf will be denigrated as the two worst kings Lilla Jordsö has ever had in all its nine hundred years. Once that book is published, you plan to thoroughly enjoy seeing their names dragged through manure, over and over again. You'll make it quite clear whenever you're interviewed in connection with this project that you feel they had it coming, and that it was long past time they were exposed for the greedy, stone-hearted characters they really were."

"Now just a minute…" Christian began, looking shocked.

"No, you just shut up and hear me out!" Anna-Laura snapped. "I know from what you just told me that Leslie is well aware of the whole stupid situation with amakarna and what Father and then Arnulf did to ensure a supply of it. But you're so blinded by the price you were made to pay on their behalf that you just refuse to see that they were forced into it! All right, perhaps Father didn't need to auction you off to Marina. But you know perfectly well that that despicable count boxed them in. He knew he held all the cards because, at the time, he was the one and only supplier of amakarna in the entire world, and that Father, Arnulf, Anna-Kristina, Briella and Magga would perish within a week if they didn't have it. He used his advantage and their need to further his own standing and better himself, in his eyes. You may have a right to blame Father and Arnulf for insisting you be the one who was packaged up and handed over, but you continually forget that they were forced to it!"

"Oh, for fate's sake!" shouted Christian, shooting out of his chair again. "I think I've had all I can stand of everyone feeling sorry for Father and Arnulf in the matter. At any rate, you can rest assured that if the family had never gotten involved with amakarna in the first place, either Father or Arnulf, or both of them, would still have found some way to shove me into marriage to someone I didn't love, merely so they could have the satisfaction of having their way. LiSciola's ambition was just a convenient way for them to do it."

"That isn't the point, you idiot!" Anna-Laura yelled back. "The point is that you're letting this ruin your life! Leslie's right—you've never gotten over feeling self-righteous in your conviction that you were terminally wronged by your own father and brother. What good will it do you knowing that the book will expose them to your satisfaction? How do you expect it to make you feel any better? It doesn't change what happened, and atop that, they're both dead and will never know the shame of what they did. In light of that, your quest for vengeance seems futile to me, and I'm sure it does to Leslie as well. She simply had the exquisite misfortune to be the one to point it out to you."

"She was still arguing the one side," Christian persisted, now sounding more bewildered and upset than angry. "She was still defending Arnulf and Father."

"I think," Esbjörn suggested in a calm voice that seemed oddly too quiet after all the hollering Anna-Laura and Christian had been doing, "that in trying to explain one of the two sides Leslie could see, she inadvertently stirred up all your old resentments, Christian, and the two of you let it degenerate into a fight before she could get so far as to explain how she also could see your side of the coin."

"Exactly so," Anna-Laura pounced on this in triumph. "You let the fight get so far out of hand that you both got upset, and then you froze her out, Christian, and she never had the chance to finish explaining her point of view. I think you owe her that much. I have no doubt she must have sneaked out of here this morning at some ungodly hour to avoid having to put up with another of your temper tantrums."

Christian heaved a sigh so huge it shifted his entire body, and he fell back in his chair, closing his eyes and raking a hand through his dark hair. "Of all the stupid things," he muttered wearily. "All right, all right…I understand what you're trying to tell me. But let me make it clear to you, _äldresyster,_ I wasn't thinking of revenge at all when I decided this book would be a good idea. I only wanted clarification of exactly who was involved and who wasn't, for the sake of the innocent ones—you and Esbjörn most of all. He was kept captive, you were allowed to think you'd been widowed and your children orphaned, and they had the gall to hold a false funeral. And for the rest of their lives neither of them ever had enough conscience to tell the truth. It's inexcusable, no matter which way you slice it. Their shortsightedness caused you and Esbjörn to lose more than two decades you could have had together." He shrugged defeatedly. "Believe me or don't, but that's the plain truth."

Esbjörn and Anna-Laura looked at each other, but before either could speak, Christian pulled himself to his feet as if utterly worn out and plodded wordlessly out of the room. He trudged across the living room, without taking notice of Ingrid's frightened stare or the triplets' subdued huddle in the corner of the living room, and climbed the stairs like an old man with arthritis. In his and Leslie's bedroom, he collapsed onto the unmade bed and rested his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands.

"I want Mommy," he suddenly heard Susanna's wobbly little voice from below, and as if on signal, his whole body began to shake with silent sobs. Christian Enstad had never been quite so confused and unhappy in his life. He needed time to think, but right now all he could do was react.

"I want Mommy, too," he muttered in a small, choked voice, before giving over to the misery that rocked him. To his relief, he was left alone throughout.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § - October 14, 2006

Roarke took Leslie down to the track an hour or so after breakfast, partly in the hope of distracting her, but mainly because he wanted to check in on Johnny Farquharson and Glory McConnell. Johnny was nowhere in sight at the moment, but there was no difficulty spotting Glory's red hair among a knot of pit mechanics. She seemed to be in urgent conference with three of them in particular, gesticulating wildly, her head bobbing and her stance almost belligerent—feet planted apart and upper torso leaning forward.

As Roarke and Leslie approached, one of the mechanics pointed them out to her with a gesture, and she spun around so fast she almost knocked herself off balance. For a second she seemed horrified; then she hastily rearranged her features into a sorry semblance of cheer and hurried toward them as if to head them off. "How nice to see you, Mr. Roarke and Mrs. Enstad," she chirped brightly. "It's such a pretty morning, isn't it?"

"Yes," Roarke agreed, studying her with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. "Has Mr. Farquharson been here?"

"He's having some breakfast over at the concession stands. I wanted to wait and call in some room service, but he was in too much of a hurry to get over here. Guess he was just too antsy to wait," Glory babbled with a bright laugh. "I just thought I'd make sure his car was in tip-top shape for the race, so I've been chatting with the boys there."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, and Roarke nodded after a moment. "I see. Very commendable, Miss McConnell. In that case, I'll look for Mr. Farquharson at the concessions." He excused himself and started away across the grass.

Leslie turned as if to follow, but hesitated long enough to peer at Glory with interest. "I didn't know you knew much about the mechanical aspects of race cars."

"Well, I…" Glory caught herself and frowned. "It just seemed fair to me to make sure that car is safe enough for Johnny to drive." The frown became a full-on scowl. "Are you one of those nincompoops who think women are just supposed to stand around looking like Christmas ornaments and being stupid and ignorant?"

"No, not at all," Leslie said, blinking and drawing back a little at Glory's belligerence. "It's only that…well, mechanics have such dirty jobs, and you're wearing some pretty expensive-looking clothes."

"I can keep informed without having to get myself dirty," Glory said haughtily, tilting her chin up a bit. "Now if you don't mind, I've got some more questions for the boys." With that, she strode away.

There was something in her manner that gave Leslie pause, but she just couldn't put her finger on it. Stymied, she shook her head and gave up, heading for the concessions in Roarke's wake. Just at the moment, it was too much effort for her to try to figure out what it was about Glory McConnell that bothered her so much; her unresolved quarrel with Christian kept dogging her, and she could never keep her thoughts off it for very long. She was wondering how long it would be before he made that "next move" Roarke had referred to that morning when she caught up with him and Johnny Farquharson next to a cotton-candy stand. "I really feel good about this race, Mr. Roarke," Johnny was saying as Leslie came within earshot. "I think I've got a great chance at winning, especially from second position."

"That's an excellent attitude, Mr. Farquharson," Roarke said approvingly.

"Were you aware that Glory's talking with the pit mechanics?" Leslie asked then, catching Johnny's surprised attention.

"No," he said in amazement. "Usually she stays far away from the pits. What would she be doing there?"

Leslie shrugged one shoulder a little. "She says she's quizzing them to be sure your car is in top condition for you when the race starts."

Johnny reached under his cap and scratched his head. "Well, that's a new one. She's never been concerned about that before. She's always refused to go near the pits—says it's too dirty for her. She likes to keep her clothes looking nice, you know." He hesitated. "Funny thing, she doesn't even hang out with other drivers' wives. She's always off by herself. Geez, I dunno…she's acting a little strange, I guess, but it's a nice gesture, her wanting to make sure my car's in good shape." He offered a sheepish grin. "T'tell ya the truth, I really didn't even know she had enough knowledge of cars to be able to ask any questions, the way you say she's doing."

"Evidently she does," Leslie said. "She got kind of upset when I mentioned it."

Johnny made a noise of perplexity. "Who'd've thought. Well, I guess I'll get her a little breakfast and bring it on over to her. Thanks, I'd been wondering where she was." Leslie nodded acknowledgement; Roarke excused both her and himself and led her back along the row of concessions toward the rover they had arrived in.

"What prompted you to mention that, Leslie?" he asked.

She shrugged fully this time, shaking her head. "It was just some weird feeling I had, nothing I could really pin down. I just asked what she was doing and she all but bit my head off—asked me if I thought women were supposed to stand around looking decorative and knowing nothing. It seemed like…well, I just kept thinking, _She doth protest too much."_

Roarke paused long enough to look back over his shoulder toward the pit; even from here they could still see Glory talking earnestly with the same three mechanics. Then he smiled. "You're more right than you know, Leslie," he said. "But for now, let's not stir the pot. By the time we finish our rounds, it will be lunchtime, and perhaps Christian will be there to join us."

"I don't know about that," Leslie admitted reluctantly. "I took our car."

Roarke chuckled. "He can always call for one of our drivers, or even take the island shuttle bus if he feels so inclined. Don't worry, Leslie. I strongly suspect that by now, you and he are no longer the only ones who know about your argument last night."

"We'll see, I guess," she murmured, unable to keep from feeling skeptical. Christian was one of the two most stubborn people she had ever known, and she figured it would take nothing short of an earthquake to make him give way first.

At the main house, they met Kali, their longtime postal carrier, who greeted them with a smile and a large stack of envelopes, bound by a rubber band, which she handed to Leslie. In Leslie's first years on the island, Kali had been in her twenties; now she was on her way to her sixtieth birthday, but still slim and pretty, with her friendly Polynesian features and her long black hair, now becomingly streaked with gentle gray highlights, which she still wore in a braid that hung halfway down her back. "Hello, Mr. Roarke and Miss Leslie," she said cheerfully. "It's good to see you both."

"Hi, Kali," Leslie murmured, accepting the envelopes and managing a small smile.

"Hello, Kali," Roarke added, considerably more cheerfully. "It's been some time since we saw you; of late you've had to leave the mail while we were out."

Kali nodded, flashing a grin. "That's true. Sometimes I wondered if you two still really existed." They all laughed.

"So are you getting ready to enjoy some leisure time and retire?" Leslie asked.

Kali snorted playfully. "Are you kidding, Miss Leslie? By the time I retire, your little ones will be old enough for one of them to take over my job. Oh no, I'll be here for years yet, so you may as well resign yourself to seeing more of my ugly face."

Leslie's laugh was genuine this time. "Oh, come on, Kali. I bet your family would take issue with that little remark. Anyway, I'm just surprised you're still working seven days a week like this."

"I love this job," Kali said. "It's too much fun to give up. I'll tell you a little secret—on Sundays when nobody else gets mail except for you two, I'll sort the incoming requests myself and check out all the return addresses, just for fun. I enjoy seeing all the places they come from."

Leslie giggled. "So do I," she said. "I've looked through the mail for that reason for years. Well, then, go on home, now that you've delivered the daily overload here, and relax for the rest of the day, will you? I feel a little guilty that you have to come here every single day with piles of envelopes."

"Keeps me fit," Kali told her, and Leslie had to admit this was true; Kali's figure was still trim and slender. "It's all the walking I do around this end of the island. Well, then, I'll be off. Have a good weekend, you two." They wished her the same in return as she strolled away down the lane.

"Why don't you take that inside and then come back out for lunch," Roarke suggested to her, already heading for the porch steps. "I'll be here waiting."

Wondering if he would have company, Leslie let her eyes stray to the end of the veranda, but the table was deserted at the moment except for Mariki, setting places. "Okay," she said through a sigh, and tried to distract herself by looking at return addresses as she meandered into the house. By rote she stepped down into the study and made for the desk to put down the stack of mail.

Then she noticed a movement in her peripheral vision, and looked up sharply, then froze. There stood Christian, hovering beside the computer desk, watching her. "Oh, it's you," she blurted without thinking.

He nodded. "I had a driver bring me over."

The mail fell out of her hands; at any rate, she didn't remember consciously setting it on the desktop. "So…are you having lunch with us?" she asked in a small, hopeful voice.

It might have been the tone she used; whatever it was, he nodded a couple of times before coming to her and hugging her hard. "If you'll have me," he murmured into her hair. "Oh, my Rose, I'm so sorry. You know what a blind spot I have about Father and Arnulf, and your words just pushed a button inside me…but I shouldn't have shut you out as I did. Please forgive me, my Leslie Rose, I love you so much."

She clutched him tightly, relief sluicing through her like a river released from a dam. "I'm sorry too, my love. It…it was just the heat of the moment, you know…I wasn't thinking about what I said and it just popped out, and the second it did I wished I'd never opened my big mouth. I'm so sorry."

"I know…you said so last night and I wasn't listening. But you were right, my darling. It's true, I've never gotten over it." Christian pulled back enough to look at her, a small smile on his face. "Anna-Laura and I had quite a shouting match about it in the kitchen this morning when she and Esbjörn came in for breakfast, and she went so far as to suggest that I want to see this book written and published because it's my idea of revenge on Arnulf and Father for all the hell they put me through."

"My gosh," Leslie said, startled. "That's quite a deduction."

He grinned. "It is, isn't it? But whatever it may look like, believe it or not, that wasn't my motivation at all. I had hopes of seeing those of us who weren't involved in the plot cleared of all the lingering suspicions—Anna-Laura and Esbjörn most of all. I don't know if they believe me or not, but now that I stand here with you, it doesn't matter. Only you do, my Rose. My sister also made me realize that we never got around to letting you tell me what you see about the benefits of having this book written. Maybe you can tell me over lunch, if you still do see any merit in the project."

She had tilted her head to one side and was considering his words. "You know," she murmured after a moment, "I think I've just made up my mind. I mean, I still understand why Amalia and Kristina wouldn't want to see this go forward, but now I think it would be a good idea if it did."

"Really? Was it something I said?" he asked curiously.

"Yup." She grinned at him. "Mariki's putting out lunch—come on, let's go out and I'll tell you and Father all about it."

"That sounds enticing, but I need to do something first." Christian smiled again, then tilted her head back and kissed her. He made it such a deep and thorough one that the old magic took over again, and before they quite knew what they were doing, they were beginning to tug gently at each other's clothing.

"It's been a while since…" Leslie murmured, eyes still closed, her hand exploring his chest inside his shirt.

"Mmmm…I know," he sighed, still half kissing her. "Do you…do you think your father would miss us if we…"

"He'd understand," she mumbled, and they looked at each other for half a second before heading toward the stairs as if there were a flood at their heels.

Some thirty minutes later they lay in each other's arms, each naked except for their wedding rings and Leslie's ruby heart necklace, still languid in the warmth from their lovemaking. She looked up, gazing into those hazel eyes she so adored, and murmured, "I didn't get to tell you…but I love you, Christian, I love you so much."

He smiled again and pressed a kiss to her forehead, his hand moving in slow circles on her lower back. "I knew, even without your saying it, but it's always good to hear it. I love you too, my precious Leslie Rose."

She slowly stroked his chest and shoulder, closing her eyes, reflecting with that old wonder that there might have been countless women over the years who'd yearned to hear those words from their prince, but that she was the one and only lucky woman who ever would. She marveled at him; he still seemed peculiarly youthful even less than two years from his fiftieth birthday, with only the occasional strand of gray hair, just a few more wrinkles, and hardly any extra weight. _Maybe chasing the triplets around is responsible for that, _she thought, quietly amused. She herself had gained about fifteen permanent extra pounds since her pregnancy; and while Mariki often still scolded her if she had no appetite at meals, she rarely heard complaints about her weight anymore. They were both getting older, but they would always have their love, no matter what.

Suddenly their rosy-edged torpor was banished in the fraction of a second when they heard footsteps climbing the stairs, and they looked at each other in startled surprise before Roarke's voice sounded outside the closed door of Leslie's old bedroom. "Lunch is ready, if you two would be so kind as to accept the invitation," he said, with a tinge of teasing sarcasm. "We have guests, and it seems to me you might wish to speak with them as well."

Leslie lifted her head. "Guests?"

"Yes, and if you'll come down, you'll see who they are," Roarke said.

"Give us five minutes, Father," Leslie pleaded, and he chuckled and acceded before retreating. She turned to Christian with a sheepish grin and kissed him before rolling out of bed. "I guess we have an urgent lunch invitation."

"It seems we do," he agreed through a laugh, rising and beginning to pull his clothes back on. "For all I know it's Anna-Laura and Esbjörn, come to regale Mr. Roarke in full detail about the miniature war we had this morning."

Leslie laughed. "Well, let's hurry up so you can give a counterpoint."

They swiftly dressed, then smoothed out the bed and left the door open before hurrying downstairs, across the study and out the door. But they saw when they rounded the corner on the porch that Roarke's guests weren't Esbjörn and Anna-Laura, but Doug and Karen Grunewald. "Oh," said Leslie before she thought.

"Hello, Mrs. Enstad," Doug said, rising to shake her hand. "Your Highness."

"Mr. Grunewald," Christian replied, his public persona in place—friendly and warm, but just a little guarded. "Hello, Mrs. Grunewald."

"Your Highnesses," Karen murmured, looking intimidated. She and Leslie exchanged greetings, and everyone sat back down while Mariki put the last few lunch dishes on the table and then retreated.

For a minute or two there was silence; then Doug Grunewald cleared his throat. "I asked Mr. Roarke if Karen and I could have lunch here, especially after he said you were here as well," he explained. "I have all the material you requested, Your Highness, and you can take it back with you anytime you like."

"I see," Christian said. "I appreciate the effort you went to." He drew in a breath and looked at Leslie. "But I believe my wife has something to say."

Leslie smiled. "Well, yeah, I do, and now that I think about it, it seems like the perfect time and place to say it. Mrs. Grunewald, I think you especially should hear this." She saw Karen's apprehensive look, but went forward anyway. "I've had some time to think, and Christian and I have talked here and there…" She flicked Christian a glance that got her a wry smile from him. "I was undecided before, but I've come to the conclusion that this book project is a good idea. I think it's timely, and I think it's needed."

"You don't realize what it's going to put you through," Karen cried, staring at Christian as she said this. "I—my family went through something similar, and even though my father was innocent, we never heard the end of the nasty remarks and the cold shoulders. You won't either, Your Highness. How can you think of going ahead with it?"

"Forgive me, Mrs. Grunewald, but I don't agree," Christian said, smiling to temper the words. "I'm very sorry for what you went through, but the fact is that, in spite of what my sister in particular might have thought, I think this book would do us a service. Yes, it would expose my father and my late brother for the roles they played in the scandal, and rightly so. But that was never my main reason for wanting to see this done. The fallout you mentioned—the sort that encompasses the innocent family members—has been doing a good bit of harm, but I believe that's only because most of it has been endlessly stirred up by the garbage media. Gossip rags and tabloids have been keeping the thing alive by putting out periodical articles.

"Your husband strikes me as a reputable reporter with a keen sense of ethics. From the few samples of his work that I read yesterday, I can see that he takes great pains and goes to huge lengths to find the facts, to unearth all the evidence he can. I'd estimate he'll have a good year or more of work in front of him, perhaps before he can even begin to write the book, but that will be time well spent. You see, I want the book written because of the pain my family has been going through after the revelations that came out earlier this year. My sister and brother-in-law have been most affected by it through the years, and it's for their sake that I want to see the truth come out. With your husband's tenacity for digging out the facts and the real evidence, I think it stands an excellent chance of doing so. Please, for his sake—for ours, even, if you need better motivation—give him the support he needs to make this project a reality. For it will vindicate those of us who were truly ignorant of what was really happening."

When he finished his quiet plea, Karen made a little squeaking noise, but nothing else came out of her mouth. She looked like a landed trout, and Leslie felt sorry for her. Reaching over to gently lay her hand atop Karen's, Leslie explained gently, "That's what made me decide that this is a good idea. Christian's hopes of seeing the rest of the family proven innocent should be borne out, and I think this book will do it."

"Karen, please?" Doug asked, ever so softly.

Karen looked at Roarke, who offered an encouraging smile, then at Leslie, who nodded, and Christian, who said, "I know your husband isn't the only one who would appreciate your support, Mrs. Grunewald."

Karen took a deep breath and stared at her still-unfilled plate for a long moment. At last she swallowed audibly and looked up at Doug with tears standing in her eyes. "M-maybe, if you'd been around when Dad's troubles all came out…maybe we'd have been vindicated too," she said in a shaky voice. "Since Prince Christian and Princess Leslie have approved it, then…you'll have all my support, and I'll g-give you any help I can."

Doug lit up. "Aw, honey, that's fabulous! Thanks a million," he exclaimed.

Roarke put in then, "Take care to appreciate this, Mr. Grunewald. It's a very big thing for your wife to change her stance on something she feels so strongly about."

"Believe me, I do appreciate it," Grunewald said fervently. "It means so much more to me than just about anything else—maybe even the cooperation of the subjects." He winked at Karen, who giggled shakily and brushed at her eyes. "But I think, now that I've got the approval of most of your family, things will go a lot quicker and easier from now on. I can't tell you what this means to me—your agreement to let me do it, and my wife's to back me."

"Just as long as you do it right," Christian said with a raised eyebrow and a grin. "I expect to be kept in the loop throughout. I figure, since I'm the one who will probably have to convince my sisters-in-law, I may as well be the one who…well, let's say 'supervises' the progress of the research and writing of the book."

"Christian, how can you?" Leslie protested. "He'll have to do it in Lilla Jordsö, and unless you're planning to spend the next twelve or fourteen months there, there's no way you can play a supervisory role."

"He can run everything by me," Christian told her, grinning. "Any one of us can hold this thing up all by ourselves, so if I don't approve—even if everyone else in the family does—I can indefinitely delay the light of publication for the book. On the other hand, since I am told you're an English professor, Mrs. Grunewald, I'll leave spelling, grammar and punctuation proofreading up to you."

Everyone laughed at that, and at last started in on lunch. After the meal was over and the Grunewalds had returned to their bungalow, with Doug leaving behind a portfolio with the things Christian had requested, the threesome retreated into Roarke's study, where Leslie began to sort through the letters Kali had delivered earlier and Christian made himself comfortable on the loveseat to read through some of Grunewald's work. Roarke started in on some paperwork, and they seemed set to wait till it was time for Johnny Farquharson's race. Christian had already mentioned it to his family, all of whom had been interested in going except for Louisa. She'd simply grinned conspiratorially at him and said, "If Rudolf goes, I get to stay and play with Katta all by myself for a change!"

Less than half an hour had passed when someone knocked on the door, and when Roarke called out in response, they were all amazed to see three young men shoving a redheaded woman through the door into the foyer and then the study. Glory McConnell's face was pale, and her eyes were red, as if from crying. Leslie recognized the three mechanics Glory had been talking to at the track that morning. "Shouldn't you be at the track?" she asked. "All of you?"

"There's somethin' we hadda do first, Miz Enstad," said one of the mechanics, a lanky celery stalk of a man, in a heavy southern twang. "C'mon, girl, tell 'em the truth."

"Stop it, Patch," Glory begged, her voice wobbling.

"I done tol' ya to stop lyin'!" Patch snapped and cuffed her in the upper arm, none too gently. "You bin playin' with ol' Johnny's feelin's way too long now, so y'better git off yer high horse an' start flappin' yer yap!"

"Excuse me, sir," Roarke said, "but perhaps first you'll explain your own identities, for the benefit of my daughter."

"Glory done talked us into it, sir," said one of the other two mechanics. "She wanted us to come here 'n' service Johnny's car for him. Sayin' we'uz the best mechanics in the entire state o' Mississippi." He made as if to spit, but Glory reached out and smacked a hand over his mouth, her face gaining color.

"Not in here, you uncouth moron," she barked.

By now Christian had been distracted and was standing behind Leslie's chair, looking on with undisguised fascination. Leslie spoke as much for his benefit as her own when she asked, "What's going on around here?"

The pit mechanics, as one, doffed their battered gray caps at her. "Miz Enstad. I'm Patch," the first one said, "this here's Blue, and this here's Rocky."

"Or leastways, them's our nicknames," the third man, a burly, compact man, said in a low bass rumble that sounded like the threat of an approaching storm. "My real name's Earl. Patch's name's Alwin, and Blue's really Roy. Earl, Alwin an' Roy M'Gil'cuddy." He shot a censorious glance at Glory. "An' she's our li'l sister, Ethel."

"Ethel MacGillicuddy," Glory clarified, in a voice that Leslie now noticed had always been remarkably free of any regional accent whatsoever. Her tone was filled with hatred. "A stupid name if there ever was one. Do you really wonder why I changed it?"

"No, I don't," Roarke said, not unkindly. "However, I think the time has come for you to explain why your brothers are…I believe the phrase is 'blowing your cover'."

Just then Johnny Farquharson himself came in, a frantic look about him; relief washed over his face when he saw Glory. "Thank heavens! Glory, hon, I've been looking everywhere for you." He finally seemed to notice the others. "What's going on?"

"Hey, Mr. Farquharson," murmured the three brothers.

Roarke smiled. "It appears that Miss McConnell…or should I say Miss MacGillicuddy…has been perpetuating some sort of assumed identity. The question," he concluded, giving Glory a pointed stare, "is why."

Glory, assaulted by Roarke's regard atop those of her brothers and Johnny, finally broke down. "We all come from a tiny nowhere town in Mississippi," she began dully, her head falling forward till she was talking to the floor. "We were poor as the dickens, and we could barely afford a secondhand TV…it was black and white, for Pete's sake. But that TV was my window on the rest of the world. I learned young that there were places beyond that little pothole in the road where we were born—places where I could make something of myself and really be someone. Someone better than who I was. So I watched my favorite reruns every day and worked on talking like them, instead of like my family and the people around me. And I made sure I got my high-school diploma, unlike my brothers here—they all dropped out to work in Daddy's mechanic shop."

"We're doin' mighty fine, Miz Uppity, an' don't you fergit it!" Roy snipped. He was a plain-looking fellow of about average height, tending toward some of his brother Alwin's lankiness, but unremarkable in every possible way, except for the most brilliantly blue eyes Leslie had ever seen. She surmised they had been responsible for his nickname of "Blue".

"Well, that's wonderful for you," Glory shot back, sizzling, her spirit goaded back into action. "But you're all so damn backwards that you think a woman's place is in the kitchen getting beer for her men and being pregnant all the time. So there's no way I could've ever become a mechanic. Not that I was going to stay in that little jerk town anyway. So as soon as I finished high school, I got out of there. I was lucky enough at least to have a few brains and some looks, and I got some modeling jobs in New York City now and then. Then I met a friend who'd just married a NASCAR driver, and she was full of stories about the fun they had on the road, meeting people at all the different races and developing friendships. I wanted some of that for myself. A little bit of fun and camaraderie. I thought I should see if I could find a nice guy in the circuit. I could travel, meet new people, get new viewpoints…"

"Is that the only reason you bother with me?" Johnny asked, hurt, speaking for the first time since he'd arrived.

Glory's voice wobbled dangerously after that, for a few sentences. "I…I met Johnny through my friend. He was so dedicated, I knew he had a winner's attitude, and his life looked like such fun and glamour to me. And I liked the way he applied himself to everything in life—not just driving, but making friends, learning about his race cars, learning about the sponsors, about the tracks…and how he kept clean. He doesn't drink or smoke or take drugs. He's such a good man, and I wanted to…he inspired me."

Her brothers looked skeptically at one another, and Johnny seemed cold. "You never said any of that to me. All I ever heard from you was, 'Why can't you win a race, Johnny? Why can't we have some of that fame and fortune and glory those other drivers have?' None of that baloney about my inspiring you!"

"Glory?" Earl rumbled and rolled his eyes. "Guess we know where y'git that name."

A tear slipped from one of Glory's eyes and began to find its way down her cheek. "You can't expect to be taken seriously with a name like Ethel, and I always liked the word _glory_ anyway. But that's not the point. I just…I wanted some of that for Johnny, that's all. I went all those races and all those times without seeing him get the accolades and the glamour and the spotlight he deserved. S-somebody that dedicated should get the chance to have his day in the sun. That's why I asked for this fantasy for him."

"Uh-huh," Johnny muttered. "Looks a lot different from my point of view…_Ethel."_ Glory flinched at the name. "Now I see why you kept gladhanding all the winners and their wives at the races. And I see why you really wanted this fantasy. You want some of that glamour and glory for yourself. You're jealous of the ones who've won, and you're itching because I still haven't won a race and you're feeling cheated."

"An' yer still tryin' to make it look like you'uz never jest some poor ol' girl from down south," Alwin added venomously. "Wearin' them fancy clothes and talkin' like some hoity-toity damn Yankee." He noticed Leslie stiffen and looked at her in surprise. " 'Pologies, ma'am, didn't mean to slight ya none. But when she gits ideas in her head an' uses some poor ol' unsuspectin' patsy to make herself into somethin' she ain't, that jest ain't right."

Glory, though, had eyes only for Johnny, and they were streaming copiously by now. "Johnny, please, don't listen to them. They always thought I was too big for my britches anyway, and they never stopped picking on me about it."

"Well, your conduct hasn't done anything to make me see differently," Johnny noted. "You might as well admit it, Glory, your ambitions are less for me than for yourself. You don't encourage, you just harp and complain. I don't need that kind of support. I don't care if you watch the race or not, but I tell you what: when I win—and I will, fantasy or no—I don't want to see your face anywhere near me." So saying, he stalked out.

Glory burst into tears. "Johnny!" she wailed, but he never even indicated he heard. Her brothers all snorted in quiet disgust and left as well, leaving her where she stood huddled in her misery.

"Miss McConnell?" Roarke prompted gently, offering his black handkerchief.

Glory blindly pushed his hand away and shook her head. "They're right, Mr. Roarke, they're all right. I might just as well go on back to Mississippi. There's nothing left for me now that Johnny's walked out of my life."

Leslie laid a gentle hand on her shoulder while Christian and Roarke exchanged glances. "Sometimes we get tunnel vision about something and don't realize how we come across to other people in trying to attain that thing. Listen, why don't you watch the race with us, huh? Most of Christian's family is coming, and Father and I will be there too. That way you won't be alone."

Glory looked up, her face a sodden mess. "That'd never do, Mrs. Enstad. Johnny and my brothers would all see me sitting up there in the stands with the royal family and just tell each other how right they were about me, that now I think I'm so good I'm on a par with royalty." She shook her head. "Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I'll go to the race and cheer Johnny on, but I'm gonna do it someplace where he'll never know I'm there." She lowered her head and departed the house under a gray rain cloud.

Leslie looked at Roarke with some wonder. "I guess she was really in love with Johnny, even despite all the haranguing we saw her doing, and the petulance she was displaying. Shows me what I know for thinking she was a shallow little twit."

Christian laughed, and Roarke smiled at her. "As you so eloquently said a moment ago, sometimes we are so focused on one goal that we don't realize what we do to others in attempting to achieve it. I suspect the young lady has a great deal of thinking to do. In the meantime, the race will begin at two o'clock, and you may wish to notify your family, Christian, so that we can all go to the track together."

"How long is the race?" Christian asked.

"It will be one hundred laps, or fifty miles," Roarke replied. "It's not meant to take up the entire afternoon; in fact, some drivers protested the shortness of the race, but it's meant to be a charity function rather than an official NASCAR competition. I daresay the preparation and the opening and closing ceremonies will last longer than the race itself."

"It doesn't seem likely to shower much glamour on Mr. Farquharson should he win," Christian observed, gathering up the reading material Doug Grunewald had left with him.

"Bite your tongue, my love," Leslie said, laughing. "The location all by itself makes a world of difference here. You should have seen the applications Father got from drivers who wanted to compete. Luckily for Mr. Farquharson, Glory's fantasy request came in just before the race was officially announced, so Father saved a spot in it for him."

Christian grinned and teased, "How convenient is that?" They all laughed, and he packed the portfolio and followed Roarke and Leslie out to a waiting SUV.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § - October 14, 2006

Within the hour the stands had filled, the rest of Christian's family had arrived, save for Louisa and the baby, and the race was under way. Leslie pointed out Johnny Farquharson's car to Christian, but it turned out to have been mostly unnecessary, for Christian was more engrossed in Doug Grunewald's material than in the race. However, Carl Johan, Esbjörn and Rudolf more than made up for Christian's preoccupation; even Amalia and Kristina seemed interested, Kristina unusually so, in Leslie's opinion. Finally she leaned over to the dowager queen and said in wonder, "I didn't know you liked racing!"

Kristina looked at her with twinkling eyes and said, "Neither did I!" They both laughed. "I understand one of the racers asked for a fantasy from your father. Which one is it, so I know whom to cheer on?"

"Number 94," Leslie said, located it on the track and pointed it out. Johnny had begun from second position in the lineup, which Leslie thought very respectable indeed; but as Roarke had pointed out, second position didn't guarantee anything close to a winning finish. She watched the car make a couple of circuits to post another mile and sighed softly, unable to resist the urge to call home and check with Ingrid to see how the triplets were doing. Ingrid, of course, told her they were just fine, which ended that distraction very quickly and forced her to hunt for something else to occupy herself with. Try as she might, she couldn't see the excitement in watching a bunch of cars circling the same loop of road over and over again.

Finally her eye lit on the pile of items Christian had already read. "Mind if I take a look at those, my love?" she asked, reaching for them.

"Go ahead," he murmured, engrossed in an article that, judging from its title, was about some sports brouhaha. She picked up the small stack of pages and made herself as comfortable as she could in her seat, scanning the piece with slowly increasing interest.

By the time she'd read through ten of Grunewald's previous writings, the race was beginning to come down to the crucial moments. It was now in the 88th lap, and Leslie was able to pick out number 94 in fourth position. She leaned to Roarke. "He looks to be doing pretty well," she ventured.

Roarke nodded, frowning slightly. "Three laps ago he came out of his third pit stop. I believe that in a race this short, most cars get away with two stops at most."

"So three's a bad thing, then?" Leslie asked.

"Not necessarily," Roarke said, "but he should now be able to stay in the pack through the end of the race. If he is required to pit again, he may lose his chance to win."

His words finally penetrated Christian's self-induced fog, and the prince looked up. "How's our man?" he asked.

Roarke told him and added, "He is still well in contention, but he can't afford another stop for any reason. Not if he is to win."

Christian found Johnny's car in the pack and watched it go for a moment. "Ah, wait a minute, he's edging up a notch," he said, leaning forward a bit in his seat.

"It's been quite a race," Carl Johan observed. "That number 94 your father-in-law's been watching has been really fighting to keep his place in the lineup. He started out in second place and has managed to keep from dropping back any farther than fifth throughout the entire race."

"Pretty impressive," Rudolf agreed. "Does he have something to prove?"

"To himself only," Roarke said, almost inaudible to them, but with an expression Leslie knew all too well. "And perhaps that's all that truly matters."

Lap after lap crawled by, and Johnny fought his way into second place, where he remained till lap 97, alarming Leslie. "He's got to get into first pretty soon, or else…" she began.

Roarke nodded. "I know, Leslie. What happens now is entirely up to him."

From then on everyone concentrated carefully on the action on the track, while lap 97 became lap 98 and Johnny Farquharson duked it out with the lead car for first place. In the middle of lap 99, Johnny managed to edge in front of the leader and put on a burst of speed on the straightaway that had the royal family sitting up in their seats with excitement. But Roarke leaned forward, a look of alarm on his face, and Leslie caught sight of it a split second before she realized why. "He's going too fast!" she cried, clutching Christian's arm.

"_Draga dej, du galen!"_ Christian growled in his own tongue, exhorting Johnny to slow down. He and Leslie, and everyone else, braced themselves as if they were passengers in the car, dreading the imminent crash.

But incredibly enough, at the very last second, Johnny slowed just enough to take the curve, tires squealing and raising smoke. When it cleared, he was two car lengths in front and putting a little more distance between himself and the guy now in second place, and once more sped up almost too fast before taking the far curves on shrieking tires. Leslie groaned and ducked her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "I can't watch."

Beside her she sensed Christian relax slightly. "He barely squeaked out of that one too," the prince said tensely. "I don't blame you for not watching, my Rose. It's a good thing there's only one lap left, though that's still time to kill himself…"

"Ach, is he insane?" burst out Rudolf in _jordiska_ from a couple of seats down, sounding aghast and admiring in equal measure. "Why is he doing that?"

"For the win, of course," Carl Johan replied, then let out a startled noise as Johnny again rounded the first curve of the final lap on screaming tires. Leslie shook her head to herself and refused to look up.

"He's that desperate?" Rudolf asked.

Leslie risked a look up, caught a quick glimpse of Johnny on the straightaway, then explained, "He's never yet won a race, and that's his fantasy. If he doesn't take it a little easier, instead of a successful fantasizer, we'll have a dead driver."

"_Herregud,"_ Rudolf breathed, eyes glued to the track. "Look at him—he's got nerve."

"But not much common sense," Christian snorted, shifting in his seat as Johnny came howling out of the last curve and apparently stood on the accelerator. _"Herregud, du—"_

That was all he had time to say, for Johnny Farquharson sailed victorious through the checkered flag, and hit the brakes with enough force to make the tires protest one more time before letting the car coast around the track. They could all see his fist pumping madly out the window; the whole family added their cheers to the roaring from the stands, and Roarke and Leslie looked at each other with relieved grins.

"Why don't we go down there and congratulate him," Roarke suggested, already rising from his seat. "Christian, perhaps you'll have the family meet us at the car; Leslie and I must speak with Mr. Farquharson."

Christian nodded. "Tell him congratulations from us too—even though we all think he's completely mad," he said, setting off laughter. Grinning, he turned to his brother, and Roarke and Leslie made their way out of the bleachers and crossed the track after the last of the pack of cars had passed by. They moved into the winner's circle and waited while car number 94 coasted into the pit and came to a triumphant stop. Johnny erupted out the door shouting ecstatically, barreling straight for his hosts.

"I did it!" he screamed jubilantly. "I won—my first race ever!" He pumped Roarke's hand with enough enthusiasm to make the latter man wince. "And it's all thanks to you, Mr. Roarke. You gave me the chance and helped me make it happen."

Roarke laughed. "Your performance was truly commendable, Mr. Farquharson, in spite of what I must confess were some hair-raising moments at the end. Congratulations on your win. You worked hard for it. My daughter's family passes on their congratulations as well—although my son-in-law said something about your being quite mad."

Johnny grinned. "I don't blame him—I scared myself a couple times, but it was worth it. This must be the greatest moment of my life. Thanks again, Mr. Roarke." He was precluded from saying any more by the presentation of a large gold cup-shaped trophy, and a shapely young woman wound her arms around his neck and blatantly French-kissed him right in front of everyone. One of Johnny's pit crew put a stop to that by dumping a cooler full of ice cubes over their heads; fortunately, by then Roarke and Leslie had stepped well out of the way and managed to avoid the resultant fallout. Leslie, though, having seen the kiss, was reminded of something and looked around.

"Is something wrong, Leslie?" Roarke asked.

She shrugged. "I was just looking for Glory McConnell. But I guess she kept her word and stayed away. I hope she stuck around long enough to see him win."

Roarke smiled a little. "It was her fantasy, Leslie, after all is said and done. I have no doubt that she did—and I also have no doubt that she kept the promise she made to us in the study this morning and is letting Johnny have the spotlight by himself." He glanced into the stands, which were beginning to empty out now. "It's Mr. Farquharson's moment; why don't we find Christian and the rest, and return to the main house."

‡ ‡ ‡

By the time they all arrived there, it was just about time for the evening meal, and the table in the seldom-used dining room had been enlarged in order to seat every member of the visiting Enstad family. This included Louisa, along with little Princess Katarina, as well as the triplets. Christian, driving the SUV, had detoured to their own house long enough to pick them up. It was turning out to be funny to watch the triplets around the baby; only Karina had any ongoing interest in the infant, while her brother and sister seemed bored with the fact that almost all Katta did was sleep, and preferred more energetic pursuits.

"So did you finish reading all the material that journalist gave you, Christian?" asked Amalia eventually, about midway through the meal. "You were so caught up in it at the track that I'm surprised you witnessed any of the race."

Christian grinned good-naturedly. "It was very interesting, actually. I honestly hadn't expected it to be that riveting. Douglas Grunewald has a particular gift for what he does, and I'm more convinced than ever that he's the man to write this book."

Amalia flicked a glance at Kristina and then gave Christian a stern look. "You have yet to convince us, you may remember."

"Ah yes, the last two stubborn holdouts." Christian smiled, not the least bit intimidated. Leslie had to smile as well; Christian was far too familiar with his family to let any of them try to subdue him. "Well, now, you may remember hearing perhaps far too much about the Anatolian ambassador to the US being caught speeding through the streets of Washington, D.C., in the official limousine. Remember all the madness in the media about how a group of the city's citizens were fed up with diplomatic immunity and decided to use the ambassador as an example? And how even King Peter and Queen Christine were drawn into the act and came down squarely on the side of the citizens' group?" When Amalia nodded, he said, "Well, Douglas Grunewald broke that story, and his articles were translated directly from the original English and reprinted in papers around the world. Those were his very words you were reading in _Sundborgs Nyheter_ last year. He presented both sides of the story in a completely unbiased manner, and reported every word of his interviews exactly as spoken by their subjects. I called the _Washington Post_ and checked on it myself. They also verified that this was true for every single one of these articles." He held up a handful of newspaper clippings. "And then there were four or five in-depth investigations he did for _Newsweek_ and _U.S. News and World Report_, both of which magazines praised his efforts and the pieces he produced. In short, Amalia, the man is that rare journalist who is everything he says he is. He has integrity and class, and leaves his interview subjects their dignity in every case, no matter how pathetic they may truly be."

By the time he finished, absolute silence reigned in the dining room. Finally Rudolf grinned and remarked, "Well, there you are, _mor_—a testimonial from the one member of the family who probably hates reporters more than any of the rest of us. If Uncle Christian is singing this guy's praises, I think there's only one thing to do—let him write the book."

"Agreed," Carl Johan said with a gentle smile at his astonished wife. "When Leslie finished reading one of the larger pieces for the magazines Christian mentioned, she gave it to me to take a look at. He's absolutely impartial and has a very crisp and easily understandable writing style. He presents all sides of an issue evenly and fairly, even if he himself feels personally biased in one direction or the other."

"When did you two have time to double-check all this?" Amalia demanded.

"Between the end of the race and the beginning of this meal," Christian said. "Since you women decided you needed to change your clothing, restyle your hair and put on fresh makeup, and since you took your time about all that, Carl Johan and I used the extra time in a productive manner. We both knew it was going to take all this to convince you and Kristina, so I decided it was best to gather all the ammunition I could."

"And I myself had a telephone conversation with Mr. Grunewald while Christian was contacting the newspaper that employs him," Esbjörn put in. "I asked him point-blank if he had ever felt that one or the other side of a debate was in the right, and he said of course he has, on nearly every occasion he's written a piece. But he's too professional to let that leach into his writing. He takes real pride in his job, and I must say I'm impressed. Were it in my power, I'd install him as journalism professor at Premier University and then put out a decree that every single human being working in the _jordisk_ media is required to take a class in journalistic ethics from him."

Leslie grinned. "Well, that's what I call a ringing endorsement."

"Indeed," Roarke said, chuckling. "Now, Your Highness, perhaps you'll allow me to fully grant the man's fantasy and give him permission to begin work on his manuscript."

Amalia sighed and rolled her eyes. "I see I've been outmaneuvered. Very well, I'll give this my blessing. You'll have a harder time convincing Kristina, though."

But Kristina was shaking her head; as usual, Anna-Laura had been quietly translating for her. "No," she said in _jordiska_, "I'll agree to be interviewed as well. If Christian feels that this man is perfect for the job, then I need no further convincing."

"Then the project is a go," Rudolf said and grinned.

"So it would seem," Roarke agreed, smiling. "I must take this opportunity to tell you that I appreciate your collective cooperation in the realization of this fantasy. I am deeply indebted to you all, and Douglas Grunewald is even more so."

"We just wouldn't want to see your perfect record for creating happy customers gain a blemish," Christian teased slyly, and everyone began to laugh while Leslie gave him a solid punch in the upper arm, rolling her eyes but laughing as well.

§ § § - October 15, 2006

Roarke and Leslie had heard nothing at all from Johnny Farquharson since his monumental win the previous afternoon, so they were both immensely curious when he stepped out of the first rover, unaccompanied. He looked slightly pensive and had a small piece of paper in one hand. "Mr. Roarke," he began before either of his hosts could speak, "did you see or talk to Glory after she, uh, confessed yesterday?"

"Only for a few minutes after you and her brothers left," said Leslie. "Why?"

"Because of this." Johnny unfolded the paper and looked down at it. "It's a note she left me—I found it in our bungalow last evening after I came back from the track and all the celebrating. She herself, well, she was gone." He handed the note to Leslie. "Here."

Aloud Leslie read, _"Dear Johnny, by the time you get this, I'll have left the island already. I know you don't care where I'm going, but I just want you to know that I'm so happy you won the race. You deserve it. I hope you have success in everything you do from now on. It'll be much easier for you now that I won't be hanging on your coattails. All my love, Glory. _ No, Ethel." She showed Roarke the page. "Look, she crossed out 'Glory' and wrote in her real name."

"What's up with that?" Johnny asked. "I've been wondering."

"She did admit that she felt you were correct in your assessment of her," Roarke said gently, "and furthermore, told us that she had given up, that she was planning to return to Mississippi." Johnny stared at him.

Leslie nodded. "She also said she was going to the race, but when Christian and I invited her to sit with us, she refused, on the grounds that she figured you and her brothers would draw the conclusion that she thought she was equal to royalty. She didn't want that. She said she'd sit someplace where you wouldn't know she was there, and so far as we know, that's just what she did."

Johnny took the note back, glanced over it again, then folded it and shoved it into his pocket. "I haven't really made up my mind about her yet, but I have a feeling, Mr. Roarke. I think maybe she's seen how dumb it was, the way she kept pushing me and trying to elevate herself above her origins. It was a real surprise; she never did tell me much about where she came from, and I quit asking after a while. I guess she was ashamed."

"Perhaps," Roarke suggested, "if you allow her some time to recover, you might try getting in touch with her once more—if you are so inclined."

Johnny shrugged. "Yeah, I might do that…I can go through her brothers. I might, I might not…I need time, y'know?" Roarke and Leslie nodded, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, all the while rocking from side to side on his feet. "But in the meantime, I got a career to think about. All thanks to you—you made it happen."

"Don't forget, Mr. Farquharson," Roarke reminded him quietly, "it was Miss McConnell who requested your fantasy—and paid for it herself, to be certain it was granted."

That gave Johnny a moment's pause; then he smiled a little and reached out to shake hands. "I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Roarke. Thanks again, for everything—and you too, Mrs. Enstad. Take care now."

"You too," said Leslie, and they watched him lope away toward the landing ramp, returning his final wave. She eyed Roarke thoughtfully. "Do you think he and Glory will ever get back together?"

"Perhaps," Roarke said, smiling faintly. "Larger miracles have happened." He winked, and she chuckled as the second rover pulled around and discharged Douglas and Karen Grunewald, both of them looking radiant.

"Well, I gotta thank you, Mr. Roarke," Grunewald said expansively, shaking hands with vigor. "This weekend turned out to be more than I ever expected it to be—and I even learned something about my wife." He grinned at Karen, who returned it wholeheartedly. "Thanks for everything." He shifted his attention to Leslie. "And thanks for sticking your neck out and telling your husband all about that pesky demon of a journalist who wanted to disrupt his happy existence by interviewing him."

They all laughed. "Oh, he's gotten over it," Leslie assured him. "As a matter of fact, last evening he was really extolling your virtues in convincing his sisters-in-law to agree to let you interview them for the book. I have to tell you, Mr. Grunewald, you've achieved something probably unique in their experience. You must be the only member of the media that Christian has ever taken a genuine liking to."

"Yeah?" Grunewald laughed. "Who'd ever have thought!"

"That, Mr. Grunewald, is due to your consistent and lasting integrity," Roarke told him. "I myself researched a great deal of your work before I ever agreed to grant your fantasy, and had you been less than scrupulously honest and unbiased, I would have turned you down in the full knowledge that my son-in-law would have done the same. You are a rare breed, and I commend you for maintaining that integrity in a world of increasingly dirty and titillating reporting. I wish you the best of luck on this project."

"Thank you so much. Time for us to get back to D.C. so I can start doing all that exhaustive research. Again, thanks for everything." Both Grunewalds shook hands with Roarke and Leslie before heading for the plane dock.

"I guess that'll be keeping Christian and his family busy for a good while," Leslie observed, watching them go. "I think this'll be one of the few history books I'll ever find myself really enjoying reading." Roarke laughed and slipped an arm around her as they waved back at their departing guests.

* * *

_Just when you thought this was over with…Roarke isn't done with Christian just yet! An especially remarkable confrontation is in store in the next story._

_My reference to King Peter and Queen Christine of Anatolia in this chapter comes from the first-season episode "The Prince / The Sheriff", original airdate February 11, 1978, with Dack Rambo as Prince Peter and Lisa Hartman as Chris._


End file.
